


All the Very Best of Us (String Ourselves Up for Love)

by starclipped



Series: The Courage to Start Over [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Background Relationships, Bad Humor, Ben Hanscom is a Good Friend, Beverly Marsh is a Good Friend, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Coming Out, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak is an Adorable Asshole, Explicit Language, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, I Love the Losers Club (IT), Internalized Homophobia (kind of), Introspection, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Stan's suicide (attempt), Mike Hanlon/Florida, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Minor Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious Richie Tozier, POV Richie Tozier, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reddie, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Sensitive Asshole, Richie and Eddie are both Trashmouths basically, Romance, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, Stanley Uris Knows All, Stanley Uris Lives, The Turtle (IT) CAN Help Us, but only temporary, eddie cheats on myra i'm sorry, i am the canon now, it's what we deserve, mentions of bottom richie tozier, overuse of italics and the word fuck, way too many song lyrics quoted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-18 23:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 186,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22401757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped
Summary: “Richie. Richie, it’s me,” he whispers, so softly that it’s almost a figment of his imagination. “Hey, it’s Eddie. I’m Eddie. I’m okay, Rich, and you’re okay, so just… please, stop saying shit like that. You’re—you’re scaring me.” He says that part like he’d rather do anything but admit such a thing. But then, as his eyes dart over Richie’s face, his expression shifts, the usual constipation twisting into something close to hysteria that he tries and fails to mask with outrage. “And stop shaking me, shitbag! I had to claw my way out of a fucking disaster zone and I’m really sore—”Richie doesn’t know how he knows it, that this is the one and only Eddie Kaspbrak, truly here in the flesh, but he does. Because it’s as if the piece of him that'd been unceremoniously ripped away has miraculously been sewn back into place, worn and faded and uneven and maybe the wrong way around, but still very much present.“Eddie,” Richie chokes, and the man he loves with all his heart is standing right in front of him, alive, and there’s no way he could make himself think otherwise.[Or: Stan lives, Eddie is resurrected, the Losers visit Georgia, and Richie gets everything he's ever wanted (plus more).]
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: The Courage to Start Over [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760494
Comments: 284
Kudos: 553





	1. When We're Older

**Author's Note:**

> _“leave your home, change your name, live alone, eat your cake. vanderlyle, crybaby, cry. oh, the water’s a-rising, still no surprising you. vanderlyle, crybaby, cry. man, it’s all been forgiven, swans are a-swimming. i’ll explain everything to the geeks.”_  
>  —vanderlyle crybaby geeks; the national  
> (fic title taken from this song)
> 
> {Note: The first 3 chapters of this fic heavily feature scenes and dialogue taken directly from It: Chapter Two (with added pining and introspection!), until it diverges fully into Fix-It territory.}
> 
>   
>    
> 

_Stanley tried to kill himself. Stanley. Stan the Man. He tried to kill himself. He tried to, he tried to_ —

Those are the words racing through Richie’s mind, the distant static of a feedback loop tingling inside his eardrums. Beverly had called Stanley’s wife, Patricia Uris, and through crackling tears she’d said the words: _he slit his wrists in the bathtub._

_He’s in a coma._

Richie wants to puke again, like he’d done before his disaster of a show. The nausea from Mike’s phone call had never truly dissipated in the first place, actually, and Richie thinks he might just shit his pants for good measure.

“ _Stanley_ _,_ ” Eddie intones, emotional yet firm. Richie tries to even out his breathing. “Pennywise _knew_ _!_ He knew before we did!”

“How?” Bill chokes, tears tracking down his cheeks in dual lines that shine against the restaurant’s glowing lights.

“Jesus, Bill, you want a fucking play-by-play?” Richie bites, irritated and upset and terrified as all hell. “He slit the fuck out of wrists so he wouldn’t have to come back to this shithole. Case closed.”

Just a few minutes ago they’d all been inside, scared out of their minds while nasty, gnarly creepy-crawlies attacked from every direction, and before that—before that, they’d been… happy, almost. No, they _had_ been. Laughing and smiling, joking and poking fun, acting like dumb kids who never grew up and never forgot. _Let’s take our shirts off and kiss!_ Yeesh. He could’ve had an aneurysm.

They can’t pretend now, after what they’d seen and remembered. Not when one of their own is hanging on by a thread, dangling so far out of their reach.

It feels like he’d seen Stanley just last week, but he couldn’t have. He didn’t even _know_ a Stanley last week.

“N-n- _no_ , Richie, _fuck_. I ju-just—”

Richie’s gaze is drawn from Bill to Beverly when a flame flicks to life beside her shaking hand. The yellow glow illuminates the tears dripping down her own cheeks, a mirror of Bill.

She’d always been a mirror of Bill, though, Richie thinks distantly. Bill in lipstick, sans the stutter and dead ( _m_ _issing_ ) little brother, too alike for their own good. He swallows at the memory of Bill’s insistence, how he wouldn’t let Georgie go until he had undeniable proof, until it wasn’t _giving up_ _,_ only _letting go_.

But Richie’s not the only one with his attention on Bev. Ben’s looking at her too, as enraptured as he ever was. There’s something pinched in his gaze. Something confused. Something knowing.

“We have to stop it,” Mike declares, loud and half-desperate. Unreassuringly assured. “I have a plan—”

Richie’s brain pounds at the front of his skull.

“ _I_ got a plan! Get the fuck outta dodge before this end’s worse than one of Bill’s books! Who’s with me?”

He holds up his own hands, looks to the faces of the four surrounding him and feels an inkling of relief when Eddie raises his, expression apologetic, serious, but as dead-set as Richie feels deep in his chest.

“We—we made a promise to each other!”

Mike looks twenty-seven years younger when he says those words, voice tinged with the childlike softness he recalled, somehow, the moment he heard it on the phone. But Richie doesn’t know him anymore. He can’t, if it’s like this.

“So let’s un—let’s _un_ make the promise!”

“Richie, other people’re gonna die,” Ben tells him. Not quite in admonishment, merely earnest and selfless as all fuck. Richie has never particularly been either of those things, has he? 

He wants to laugh. He splutters instead.

“People die every day, man! We don’t owe this town shit!” He’s waving his arms around—long to match his height, not gangly like when he was a kid, more muscled than those awkward teenage years—because he doesn’t know what to do with himself, can’t hold it all in, has to be seen and heard. “Plus, I just remembered I grew up here, like, two hours ago, so I’m fucking leaving. _Fuck_ this!”

He turns towards his car as he says this, inching away step by step, and that relief from before blooms a little more behind his ribcage when Eddie begins to turn away with him, a half-assed wave thrown up to go along with a mumbled explanation when Mike comes at him in visible despair.

“Sorry, man, I’m with Richie.”

“Eds, _please_.”

“Listen. What, we stay, we die? That’s it?”

Richie’s rumbling Mustang cuts into Eddie’s voice, until, soon enough, he can’t hear it at all. The slam of the door shielding him from Derry’s eerie night air.

Richie takes a breath and begins to back up only after Eddie passes quickly behind his taillights, idles with his eyes trained on the black tarmac, peripheral still aware (always) of that small torso covered in a maroon jacket. Richie waits until Eddie’s rental backs up in front of him and drives away ahead, leading him out of the Parking Lot of Misery, where, with one glance in the rearview mirror, he spots Bev power-walking into the distance, Ben trailing her like a lost puppy. And then he sees Bill and Mike lingering near Jade of the Orient’s entrance, distant blobs in the dark, because _of course_. Bill could never let anything go, the fucking idiot.

Richie’s not about to play hero for a bunch of schmucks he couldn’t even remember the names of a day ago. _(Welcome to the Losers Club!)_ And he sure as hell isn’t going to play hero for a town that did nothing but silence him in any way it could.

Stan had the right of it, he thinks. He’d always been the smartest.

*** * ***

“Let’s get our shit and get the fuck outta here.”

They’re booking it to the stairs when Bev swerves away, heading straight for the bar Richie glimpsed when he’d dropped his bag off before dinner. Eddie’s on his tail, asking Ben if he’d brought his stuff in like they had, nearly stepping on the heals of Richie’s sneakers when Ben says he’d left his stuff in his car.

Eddie mumbles on the ascent, words dripping constantly like a leaky faucet, all the way down the hall and to their rooms.

“What the fuck were we thinking? I knew this was a bad idea, I fucking _knew_ it, but I still drove my ass all the way out here, and for what? Fucking _Stanley_ , man. The fucking clown. _Shit_.”

Surprisingly, Richie remains silent. He lets Eddie mutter to himself because, for one thing, the little shit is saying everything that’s running also through his mind in that very moment and, for another, he ducks in and out of his room so quickly he doesn’t really have a chance to respond before his legs are carrying him back down the stairs.

There’s a vague sort of interest that piques in him when he sees Ben trying to stop Beverly from leaving the room, leaving her problems, leaving _him_. He’s not blocking the door, not forcing her to stay, but his presence is solid and his crackling voice is pleading, and Richie sees that the tears from earlier haven’t left Beverly’s wide green eyes.

“Whatever you guys are talking about, let’s make it happen fast, alright? We gotta go.” _Gotta go before this town sucks us back in, before that bucktoothed bitch bites onto our ankles and drags us into the sewers where we’ll float, too._ “Hey, Eduardo!” he calls to the ceiling. If he’s panicking, he tries not to let it show. “ _Ándale!_ Let’s go!”

He and Eddie need to just get the fuck out of here and they’ll be fine, he knows it. It’ll be easy twenty-seven years earned, just by leaving, but then what? He’d had fun at dinner, despite his nerves and reservations, before everything devolved into a spooky-scary-Goosebumps book. Seeing Eddie again, seeing the Losers, what a trip that’d been. They look the same, but older.

_(Am I still handsome as an adult?_

_You grow into your looks._

_What the fuck does that mean?_ Followed by amused chuckles. A tiny grin, tiny shorts, an even tinier snicker.

_What about me?_

Happy smile, bandage wrapped around and between unruly, curly hair.

_The same, but taller. The same, but taller. The same, but taller.)_

Will he forget again? Present Richie bristles at the thought, but Future Richie reminds him that he won’t fucking _remember_ if he fucking _forgets_ , and maybe it’s better that way. To forget before all the memories, the ones his body knows to dread but his mind can’t yet grasp onto, swim to the forefront of his consciousness like rapids. _So let’s move, dipshit—_

“There’s something you’re not telling us,” Ben croaks behind him. “You knew where Stanley was. You knew what he did. You _knew_.”

Richie turns at that, blood freezing in his veins. He steps closer and blurts the first thing his brain so eloquently provides.

“Wait, _what?_ ”

“I can’t do this,” Bev whispers, and Richie’s never known her to run from her problems before.

( _I wanna run_ towards _something, not away._ )

Molly Ringwald’s changed. Twenty-seven years.

Bev moves past Ben, past Richie, stops at the empty front desk.

“She knew Stanley was gonna try to kill himself? Is that what she just said?”

Richie’s voice pitches higher at the end, but he still doesn’t sound as distressed as Ben and he doesn’t move as quick as Bev. He watches them flit around each other, feet glued to the floor. He notices Beverly’s distress spiking while Ben begs her to just _talk_ , the way they used to.

“How did you know?”

“Because I saw it.” She breathes the words like she stole the very air from Richie’s own lungs. “I’ve seen all of us die.”

_What the everloving, motherfucking—_

It’s in that moment that Richie would assume a herd of elephants are stampeding down the stairs, what with all the racket Eddie’s small body makes on its descent.

“Okay, Richie,” he grunts, almost too fast to comprehend in his current state of shock. “I just gotta grab my toiletry bag and then we can go.”

Two huge suitcases drop down on the landing like they’re full of bricks. Or a fuckton of pills. Both options are useless.

Eddie looks at the trio with big brown eyes and thick, lowered brows. His lips are a straight line almost always, narrow cheeks dimpling even when the barest of frowns begins to form. He reminds Richie of the fucking _40 Year Old Virgin_ , with his stupid polo shirt and carefully combed hair. He’s short like Steve Carell, too. Cuter, by far.

And yet he still looks just like the tiny spitfire he used to be, only now with added lines and wrinkles, who would talk a mile a minute and never let Richie get away with _shit_. That was the fun of the game, wasn’t it? Richie would’ve pulled Eddie’s pigtails, if he’d had any, but he didn’t so he settled for fucking his mom instead—

And _wow_ , Richie hasn’t told a “your mom” joke in years. The ones in the restaurant had flown from his mouth before he knew what he was saying. A reflexive response. It’s all about “my girlfriend,” these days. Not nearly as fun or rewarding, though equally untrue.

He blinks just as Eddie says, “What’d I miss?”

Richie doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t know anything anymore. Fuck it all.

*** * ***

Richie couldn’t say where the hell Bill and Mike ran off to. He cares, in a far-off way, because something could have happened to them and that’d be worse than awful, but the room is too small for any conversation outside of the one they’re currently having so he zooms into what’s just been said. His focus mostly ends up landing on Eddie as he paces footprints into the floor, however; tense hands on slim hips, walking like he’s got a fucking stick up his ass. Oh, Richie remembers _that_.

“Okay, so, what d’you mean that you’ve… seen us all die?”

“Yeah,” Richie chimes in, tone far more casual than he is on the inside. He’s fucking tired, man. He’s fucking _old_. “’Cause I gotta be honest, that’s a fucked up thing to just drop on somebody.”

He feels a little bad for saying so when Beverly wipes at the tears that still haven’t ceased. She doesn’t look at him, just stares straight ahead, dead-eyed. He can’t even offer her an awkward smile for reassurance, but he offers one to Eddie when the shorter man peeks over. The lines on his forehead manage to grow even deeper.

“Every night since Derry, I’ve—” her voice is wispy, “—I’ve been having these nightmares.” Eddie turns away, attempts to pace again, stops before he can start. His dimples are even more prominent now with the level of grimace he’s sporting. “People in pain, p-people dying, people…”

“So you have nightmares,” Eddie interrupts, insincerely flippant, before Beverly can start crying for real. Richie doesn’t know if it’s tactful or oblivious. Probably the latter, coming from Eddie. “I have nightmares! People, they have nightmares! But that doesn’t mean that your visions are _true!_ ”

Eddie’s waving his hands around and looming over Beverly and smiling like a fucking weirdo, and Richie thinks he might be trying to stave off an asthma attack. _Panic attack_. He’d never had actual asthma, Richie knows that much.

 _It’s isn’t real_. He remembers Bill telling him that inside the house on Neibolt, after he’d seen Eddie spit up oozy black sizzling blood—the same stuff that was at the restaurant. (There was a bat, not of the baseball variety, too. And why did _that_ seem so fucking familiar?) He remembers Bill saying those words when they were trapped behind bullshit doors conjured by It, and all Richie wanted to do was run towards Eddie’s terrified screams—

 _It isn’t real._ But this is. Here, in this moment, in the center of Derry. Stanley tried to kill himself. Beverly’s had visions of them all dying. How much worse can this get?

Bev turns to Eddie, eyes wide and scared, more scared than anyone should ever be. “I’ve watched every single one of us—” Her voice trembles so hard she can’t even finish her declaration.

“You’ve seen every single o-one of us wh-what?”

Bill. He sounds just like he did when they were 13, an octave lower than before but still so soft, still so convicted, still so broken by uncontrollable stuttering. He’d been fine before the Pennywise talk started, before the fear gave itself a name. His voice had been the first thing that struck Richie at Jade—well, right after his shockingly short stature and those streaks of gray in his hair. 

Richie remembers Bill giving a speech in front of the well-house, so cheesy and motivational and real that even Richie couldn’t make fun of it. He remembers Bill hadn’t stuttered once. He gets down to Bev’s level, looks her in the eye, and for a moment they share that same gaze again, that same thread of bravery, that same familiar wavelength.

“The place where Stanley—” She stops herself, takes a shaky breath, still can’t finish it.

“Stanley’s not d-dead yet, right? His wife s-s-said he was in a coma. He could w-wa-wake up.”

Bev nods absently, unconvinced by the correction but not refuting it.

“The place he could wind up… He will. And that’s how we end.”

 _End._ Shit, they really are gonna fucking die, aren’t they? Big Bill Denbrough really wrote them into a corner here. Richie would rather go back to puking and getting heckled on stage. He kind of liked it, if he was being real. He’d always liked people spitting biting words his way, never really knew why until Eddie Kaspbrak popped back into his world.

 _Eddie._ He’s starting to gasp for breath next to Ben.

“Hey, how come the rest of us aren’t seeing that shit?” _(Can only virgins see this shit?_ Why had that fucking fortune cookie been _looking_ at him? _)_ “I mean, what—what makes her so different?”

“The Deadlights.”

Of course Mike knows. All that freaky-deaky research in his handy-dandy-notebook. Of _course_ he’d get it first. But Richie’s thrown for another loop, even more so when Bill nearly chokes when realization hits him.

“The D-Deadlights.”

Bill stares straight ahead, at Richie but not at Richie, past Richie, into the literal past. Their time in the sewer, the cistern. Richie can see it in his own mind’s eye. Can recall.

They were chasing after Bill through the greywater, stopping in front of Beverly as she hovered, lifeless, in the air.

Floating.

Ben shouted tearfully. Used their help to reach up, pull her down. Cried when he hugged her and she stayed as still as a doll, like the one in the coffin in that stupid ass clown room.

And he’d kissed her, right? Ben had laid one on her and Richie thinks he might have gagged, for a moment, before he understood what was happening. He joked so much about kissing girls, fucking Eddie’s mom, but the reality of it was kind of gross, wasn’t it? He could only ever imagine it with—

“She was the only one of us that got c-caught in the Deadlights that day.”

“We were all touched by It,” Mike explains, a little too giddy for Richie’s tastes. Or maybe manic is the word he’s looking for. Still not great. “Changed, deep down. Like an infection or a virus. A _virus!_ You understand?”

He zooms in on Eddie again as Ben gets up to stride over to Beverly, who’s pulled out another cigarette. Chain smoker. Richie wants to snatch it from between her lips to steal a puff.

And Eddie, the poor fucker, slips past Mike with his hands in the air like even just the mention of a virus is going to kill him where he stands. He turns to look at them, look at Richie, with soulful eyes that always showed so much but never enough.

“Slowly growing. That virus, it’s been growing for twenty-seven years. This whole time! Metastasizing! It just got to Stan first because—”

“He was the weakest.”

It’s Richie who says that, though it doesn’t register at first. His voice sounds deeper, even to his own ears. Detached. Does he mean it? He thinks he does, but not in a way that’s intended to be mean or bad.

Stan had always been different. Peculiar in a way that even Eddie wasn’t. Sure, the little hypochondriac loved to complain and bluster and shout until his face turned red, but he still got shit done when it came down to the wire. He was brave. Brave in a way that even the rest of them weren’t. Eddie never thought so himself, but he was; walking through greywater, jumping to the front lines to throw rocks at ugly bullies, cleaning blood from Ben’s stomach and Beverly’s bathroom despite his seismic fear of AIDS, running away from his mommy to help the friends who needed him even after said friends let him break his arm and get drooled on by some batshit alien creature dressed as a big-headed clown.

Stan, in some ways, had been more delicate than Eddie. Because no matter how much he argued, Eddie _believed_. In the Losers, in It, in Richie. Stan, who’d been traumatized in those sewers maybe more than any of them had—except maybe Bill and Beverly— _couldn’t_ believe, didn’t want to. Was probably the happiest out of anyone that he’d forgotten until Mike dropped a bucket of icy truth over his head. _Guess Stanley could not cut it._

And God, Richie feels like the biggest fucking asshole for even thinking that, but it’s _true_ _._ Because that’s what Pennywise does. He takes your truths and he fucks you over. Makes you afraid of everything and especially yourself until you _want_ to leave it all behind. Until you’d be _forced_ to relive it all and _come home._

“Jesus,” Bill whispers. Richie feels a prickle of shame. “Jesus Christ, Rich.”

“I’m just sayin’ what everyone else is thinking, man.”

“I mean—” Eddie shakes his head the way he always did when Richie went too far. It’s not a joke this time and it wasn’t meant to be. “ _Richie_. Come on.”

“What Beverly sees,” Mike wastes no time launching right back into his spiel, “it’ll all come to pass. It’ll happen to all of us, eventually, unless we stop it.”

_Shit, fuck, shit._

Richie needs a drink or ten, but most importantly he needs to hold onto something before his legs give out and he collapses on the floor like a jackass. He hurries to stand behind the bar, shooting Mike a look that says “ _when the fuck did you get so crazy_ ” while leaning against the sticky countertop. Eddie’s lips curl so far around his teeth that they become nonexistent.

“How the hell are we supposed to do that?”

“The Ritual of Chüd.” Mike pauses long enough for Richie’s jaw to slacken because, seriously, _what the fuck._ “The Shokopiwah, the first ones who fought it, they have a saying. All living things must abide by the shape they inhabit.”

“A tribal ritual? Are you—are fucking _kidding me_ , man?” Richie shouts, a huff of a laugh escaping his nostrils. He’s at the end of his rope now. So is Eddie, judging by the way his eyebrows shoot up as if to say ‘ _yeah, are you fucking kidding us, man?_ ’ “Alright, there’s gotta be another way, okay? This thing comes back, what, every twenty-seven years? Let’s kick the can down the road and do it then.”

That gives Eddie pause, his face scrunching up in a way that’s stupid and adorable, like he’s been sucking on a lemon. He bisects his hand through the air, fingers held tight together, the middle jutting out to point at Richie accusingly. It’s so achingly familiar that Eddie’s face smooths out for a flash, baby cheeks and doe eyes and round chin transporting Richie somwehre else for half a second.

“Wait. We’ll be seventy years old, asshole!”

Richie can’t do anything but stare, honestly. Mouth wide around words he can’t so much as think, shoulders rising and falling with a breath that doesn’t help. _Shit_ , he thinks for the millionth time. Maybe he’ll get lucky and keel over at 69, then. _Heh_.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Beverly manages to say, re-finding herself among the chaos. She looks like she’s going to cry again, like she might need a puff of Eddie’s inhaler instead of that cigarette. “None of us make it another twenty years and… the way it happens…”

Her breath catches. Richie downs a shot, his eyes never leaving hers. He feels like he can’t look anywhere else or he might crack at any moment.

“If we don’t beat It this cycle…” Ben trails, voice so gravelly that it takes a moment for Richie to understand what he’d said.

Bill has no such trouble.

“We die.”

“Horribly,” Eddie adds, factual beneath thin panic.

“Yeah, I don’t need the horribly part.”

“ _I_ didn’t say it,” Eddie grouses, eyes closed like he can’t bring himself to look at Richie’s face, or maybe he can’t bring himself to look at anything. It’s all too palpable. “ _She_ said it, not me.”

“Alright, guys, look.” Bill draws them all to silence, stepping back into those dusty old Leader Shoes because they need something concrete to understand. “I’ve seen w-wh-what he’s taking about and i-it’s all true. It’s the only way. If we want this ritual to work…”

He looks to Mike, who seems relieved by the support.

“We have to remember.”

Richie doesn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit.

“Remember what?”

** * * * **

Derry looks deserted at this hour. _The Town That Dreaded Sundown_. There’s no one around, literally not a soul for miles—except for the six bozos currently ambling down the street in hurried strides—and the air is too cool for August, even through Richie’s leather jacket, and when he glances at Eddie, in his thin little zip-up, he wonders if there’s ice prickling at the back of his neck, too.

Missing posters litter the streets alongside fallen leaves and crumpled trash, spread out along dry gravel and dirt, the black and white faces of unknown children staring up at him with blurry eyes frozen in their emotions. Richie knows they’ll never feel anything again.

His fingers, which are curled tight within the confines of his pockets, rub against the ridges of his car keys, against balled up gum wrappers, against a matchbook he’d snatched from Jade of the Orient, against a crinkled receipt for gas and a Coke he’d paid for not long after he’d entered the state of Maine. _The Way Life Should Be_ , his _ass_. They’re well on their way to whatever destination Mike has in mind, but the blast from the past has already started, slowly trickling into Richie’s awareness with a surprising pang of nostalgia.

The trip through the main drag goes by quickly, with Richie’s gaze zeroed in on Mike as he leads the way, only flickering to Eddie every few steps because something might pop out at them any second and he needs to know how long it’ll take to drag them both away. Just in case.

Richie remembers, with startling clarity, the rock fight they’d had with Bowers and his gang once they start down over that hill, past the water below and the train-tracks above, through tall grass and taller weeds, and he remembers how Bev had nailed Henry on the head to save Mike. _Homeschool_. He remembers Stanley ( _n_ _ice throw_ ) and shouting a war cry before his head exploded with pain that’d knocked him off his feet, thick glasses remaining thankfully unbroken. He remembers Eddie screeching, his tiny body hopping down to get closer, his throws full of rage and care, just like himself.

They traverse the hill with Richie bringing up the rear, gaze on Eddie’s back instead of his profile, and he remembers that just as well, the time the Losers Club had become officially official with its last member. Lucky number seven.

The barrens come next. Sewer water rushes out from its mouth, lapping over steady stones. Eddie’s the only one who rolls up the ankles of his pants, forever cautious and so fucking dorky. He pulls them back down over his wet, skinny ankles once they all disappear through the treeline to crowd gnarled trunks and overgrown roots, circling each other with a warm sense of awareness. Ben can’t stop smiling.

“This is where we came,” he says, soft and low and happy, “after the rock fight.”

With beams of sunlight shining through tall branches, bathing them in heat and memory, Richie’s brought back to something else. Some _place_ else.

“The clubhouse…”

And then they all start smiling, the way Ben had been from the start. Beverly laughs. “You built that for us!” she exclaims, motioning to Ben’s proud expression.

“Yeah!” Richie’s insides tremble with childish excitement. “Yeah, yeah, yeah! The hatch’s gotta be around here somewhere—”

“You did!” Eddie shouts, finger pointing through the air. His fist covers his thin mouth, though it does nothing to hide those deep fucking dimples or the squint of his dark eyes. “Yeah, yeah I _do_ remember that!”

Richie does, too.

**~*~**

He’s thirteen, head matted to his forehead with sweat, oversized overshirt billowing in the slight breeze, clumsy fingers wiggling too-big glasses in front of too-big eyes. His head aches but he couldn’t be happier. Climbing down into a hole in the earth, fitted with beams of wood for what looks like every inch, he’s also a little amazed.

“What the dick is this?” he asks aloud. He sounds disbelieving even to his own ears, perhaps a little jealous that the New Kid might turn out _cool._ “How’d you build it?”

“ _When_ did you build it?” Bill counters, like his question is better. Richie doesn’t care. He’s too busy darting around all the dust and dirt, looking for worms and pebbles in the walls.

Ben sounds shy, somewhat proud, when he replies.

“Here and there, I guess. It was already dug out for something, so I just had to reinforce the walls and get some, uh, wood for the roof door, and that’s pretty much it.” He grins, chubby cheeks looking splotchy in the low-light, and leans against the nearest beam. “Pretty good for my first time, huh?”

Part of the ceiling falls to the floor with a giant thud.

It startles them all—well, except Richie. He tries hard not to laugh.

“Now _that’s_ a cool feature! What happens when you put your hand on the other pillar, Professor?”

Eddie can’t and won’t let this slide.

“Okay, you see, this is _exactly_ why we have safety codes!” He launches into it straight away, his skinny, bare legs carrying him towards Ben in swift, confident strides, hands slapping together for emphasis. “Why there are _permits!_ This place is a death trap, d’you understand that?”

“Well,” Ben looks down, voice suddenly quiet, “it’s a work in progress, okay, Eddie?”

Richie almost feels bad for the guy, truly. Eddie can be stinging when he wants to, and _especially_ when he doesn’t want to, but all that wrath coming out of such a tiny body? Richie won’t ever _not_ find that amusing. It’s a sight to behold.

“Just so you know, if I get hurt you’re reliable, and also—” Eddie turns abruptly, hand shooting out to smack a dusty rectangle chained to a beam. “What _is_ this? The switch from an iron maiden?”

“It’s a flashlight.”

“And what is that, a horse hitch? When do you have horses down—oh, this is cool.”

The tirade stops momentarily when Eddie sets his eyes on a paddle ball, of all things. His frown turns upward into a soft little smirk. It makes the back of Richie’s throat go dry.

“That was like three dollars, so be careful with that, please,” Ben tries, but Eddie’s isn’t listening.

“I have one of these,” he boasts, self-satisfied, like it’s the latest cassette from _Sonic Youth_ or a fresh copy of MAD and not some shitty little children’s toy. “Hey, Stan, you see this?”

He bangs the red ball against the paddle, the string stretching out taut mere inches from Stanley’s face, making the curly-haired boy flinch.

“Yeah, okay, can—can you maybe _not_ …?”

“Maybe not what?”

 _s_ _mack smack smack smac_ _k_

Richie’s leaning against one of the beams, head tilted, Bill and Bev watching the scene unfold just as blankly beside him, but he knows with certainty that they aren’t feeling the same long-suffering fondness spreading through their chests how he is, slow and steady, like spilled glue trickling out atop those rickety wooden school desks.

“Yeah, yeah, hold on. Maybe not what? Maybe not _what_ , be awesome and have fun and celEBRATE THE MAGIC OF THE PADDLE BAAAALL—!”

 _Someone’s still hyped up on adrenaline_ , Richie thinks amusedly. He blinks, lips pursing when the paddle flies right out of Eddie’s hand, nearly hitting Stan in the process. Ben watches forlornly as the ball snaps off the string and dribbles away to land somewhere between dirty wooden slats.

“Wow,” Eddie huffs. “Oh, good going, _fucknut_ , you broke his thing!”

“ _I_ broke it?” Stan repeats indignantly, and yeah, Richie can see why. Because, _god_ , Eddie is such a fucking little shithead, the most annoying person in existence, outside of Richie himself—a title he holds proudly—and—

“Yeah! You broke it with your _face!_ ”

“ _What?_ ”

—and there’s a moment, briefly, where he wants to jump in and say some stupid shit just to pull Eddie’s attention off of Stan and onto himself. Because he craves it, feels itchy when it’s been too long without a snipe or a stare, but he brushes it off as quickly as the urge comes. He’s tired, not really in the mood for bickering when he can feel all his well-earned bruises begin to form and pulse.

“I’m not putting my fucking hand down there!” Eddie announces, like any of them assumed he would. It’s almost enough to draw Richie’s tongue out into a quip about Eddie putting his hand down somewhere _else_. Almost. Common sense stops him from going there.

**~*~**

Young Eddie wouldn’t risk shoving his grubby little hands into a dark slot just for some dumb, broken toy, but Older Eddie doesn’t seem to share the same qualms. He’s relaxed for the moment, Richie can tell from way over in the dark corner he’d stepped into, as he blows away the top layer of dust covering the ball that’s caked in twenty-seven years’ worth of grime. His smile isn’t a smirk, now, but something gentler, matching with everyone else. Richie still feels it in the back of his throat, stronger than ever before.

“ _Hey,_ _L_ _osers!_ ” He aims for ‘ _killer clown from outer space_ ’ but sounds more like ‘ _drunk hobo in the back alley_ _.’_ Still, everyone twists around, their smiles dropping, flinching and stumbling away. _“Time to float_ _!_ ”

Ben falls into a sitting position. Mike raises a bat. Bill bangs his head on a low beam.

Richie steps forward, ducking down to fit, cackling the whole time. The wide-eyed, flat-mouthed expression on Eddie’s face makes him grin like a loon.

“ _Dude!_ ”

“Remember when he used to say that shit? He’d do that little dance.”

Richie’s arms go back and forth, stilted and silly, throat clicking with a tune that vaguely reminds him of any circus ever. No one laughs. Beverly’s ignoring him, in fact, and Eddie looks like he’s testing whether or not his glare could slap Richie all the way from where he’s kneeling.

“Am I the only one who remembers this shit?”

“Are you gonna be like this the entire time we’re home?” Eddie all but shouts. He’d always been a loud little fucker.

Richie twists his mouth, feeling oddly reprimanded, not wasting any time shoving his hands back into his pockets. He feels safe that way. Bundled up. Closed off.

“Alright, just trying to add some levity to this shit. I’ll go fuck myself.”

Beverly can’t help but smile, just a tad, trying hard to hide it as she immerses herself in old trinkets. Richie catches it as he turns away with a whistle, salvaging the moment in that one small way.

“It smells so fucking terrible in here…” he whispers to no one, and then he bites his tongue when ‘ _it’s your breath, wafting back into your face_ ’ nearly rolls right off it.

The clubhouse does smell rancid, though. Like something fucking crawled down here and died. Probably a racoon or a squirrel… hopefully not a human, but who the hell can be sure? It’s also dark and overgrown and more subdued than it’s ever been, as if someone slapped one of those sepia-toned filters over the whole area, leaving the Losers and their imaginations to make up for the loss of color.

Unwound cassettes, crusted comics, flattened boxes of Whoppers and crushed cans of Shasta. There’s a dirty action figure poking out from beneath a pile of books and tape covers, a faded _Lost Boys_ poster on the wall. Someone’s old coat hangs from the plank swing. A pile of trash is piled near a crate.

They’d had some good memories in this clubhouse. Mike helping Ben reconstruct the support beams to be sturdier, Bill and Eddie dropping stacks of goodies down the ladder for everyone to share, Beverly and Richie making mixtapes on the boombox Richie always hauled back and forth from his house to the barrens, Stanley bringing blankets or flashlights or snacks that weren’t full of salt and sugar.

“Hey, you guys? It’s S-S-Stan. For the use of L-Lo-Losers only.”

Richie stops in his tracks at the sound of Bill’s voice cutting through the silence.

“Bill,” Eddie swallows, tilting his head like he’s ready to rear back.

Richie’s jaw itches. He hunches in on himself as far he can.

It’s a shower cap that Bill pulls out. Bill, who, in that moment, looks so much like Stanley, standing there with boyish innocence written all over his face.

And then it _is_ Stanley, in Richie’s memory. Pulling that souvenir out of a cleaned coffee tin, the label on the front taped neatly with perfect blocky letters written across. As perfect as a teenage boy could manage, anyhow.

Richie can see Stanley, his shirt buttoned up all the way to the neck, curls tucked carefully beneath the elastic band of his own patterned cap. And Richie can hear a bumping beat nearby, some 80s track they all played too much but enjoyed every time. He can feel the hammock— _the hammock_ —swaying beneath him, the object of Stanley’s masterful idea smooth and crinkly beneath his fingertips when he plucks it from his grasp…

**~*~**

“The fuck is this?”

“It’s so you don’t get spiders stuck in your hair when you’re down here.”

“Stanley, we’re not afraid of fucking spiders.”

He throws it down, causing Stan’s smile to drop into the fastest scowl Richie’s ever seen, and then the birdlike boy jerks away in a silent huff. Richie settles back into the hammock, comic held in both hands, when he senses Mike, Bill, Bev, and Eddie freezing in the corner. Glancing over, he sees that they’re in the middle of tucking their hair into Stanley’s dumbass anti-spider safety hats.

He blinks at them, not sure where exactly he went wrong in showing these losers how _not_ to be so lame, and sighs through his nose.

“I stand corrected.”

He doesn’t expect Eddie, of all people, to rip his cap away from his head the second Richie pokes fun, flinging it to the floor like it suddenly has cooties, but it happens and Richie doesn’t know _why_ _._ He doesn’t think it should matter enough to make his chest feel tight, though it does, and Eddie’s bewildered expression, fucking _doe eyes_ looking caught and alarmed, has Richie staring at his comic with renewed interest.

Bev laughs. For a second he thinks it’s because of Eddie trying to look cool for him— _yeah right, you freak_ —but then she says, through cigarette smoke and a grin, “That’s a first,” and the relief is immediate.

“Touche.”

Through his peripheral, marred only slightly by the huge-ass frames pressed against his face, he spots Eddie striding purposefully forward. He’s wearing those red shorts again, the ones that seem too small even for someone as short as Eddie, and a _Thunder_ _C_ _ats_ shirt that matches the figure propped up against the boombox. Dork.

“Hey, Rich. Your ten minutes are up.”

He sighs, rolling his head back to glance up at Eddie’s face, one of the rare times he doesn’t have to look down instead.

“What’re you talking about?”

“The hammock! Ten minutes each was the rule.”

Richie almost snorts. The rule? It’s summer. No fucking rules until they’re corralled like animals and dragged screaming through the hallways for a whole ‘nother year of tests and detention. So he looks around innocently, knowing it’ll tickle Eddie’s angry bone just right, and shrugs.

“I don’t see any sign.”

“Are you being this way right now?” Bingo. “ _Really?_ No, no, no, no. Why would there be a sign if it was a _verbal_ agreement!?”

“I don’t think—”

“I remember _you_ —”

“ _I don’t think_ —!”

“—agreeing on the _fucking_ _rule!_ ”

He can’t get a word in edgewise, not with Eddie’s incessant bitching, but it wouldn’t do any good anyways because the next thing Richie knows is Eddie launching himself forward without any care towards, you know, not tipping them out onto the floor or unraveling the ropes that stretch and creak with the weight of two teenage boys.

Richie’s nose scrunches irritably, arms coming up to protect his face when Eddie’s shoe threatens to slam into his jaw. And Eddie’s shorts, which are already _too_ short, ride up even further, making Richie’s body seize when he can’t help but glimpse up the leg holes.

He doesn’t _want_ to think about Eddie’s underwear. _Shit!_ That would be gross, right? Disgusting. Nothing at all like Bev in hers, nope, no way. They were blue, right? Eddie’s are white. They always are. He wears whitey-tighties, just like the rest of them, but Richie had never really looked _this_ close and they’re just as small as those stupid fucking shorts and—

“Ugh! I can see your vagina!” he shouts because, really, what else can Richie say? He’s getting an eyeful without even asking for one. Not like he ever _would_ ask, but— but—

“ _Ten! Minutes! Each!_ ” Eddies shrieks, eyes twinkling. Richie thinks he might be enjoying this a little more than he should. Eddie, he means. Definitely not himself. He’s annoyed, nothing more.

“Go back in your dumb little stupid corner!”

They’re shouting at each other, nonsense like always, as the hammock sways dangerously, threatening to toss them if they keep it up. But Eddie won’t stop wiggling in his attempt to get his growing limbs to lay comfortably over Richie’s gangly ones.

“—I fucked your mom!” he shouts with conviction, trying to ignore the turbulent pit growing in his gut by focusing on the uncomfortable angle Eddie’s forced them into, all their bony points digging into sensitive flesh.

“No you didn’t! Take that back, dickface!”

“Fuck you!”

It’s a game, Richie knows, maybe even more than Eddie does, and it’s his favorite to play. He can’t help himself when it comes to his fanny-pack wearing friend, he just gets so riled up at even the smallest of comments to leave Richie’s perpetually chapped lips.

Eddie’s lips always look smooth because he wears _chapstick_ like a weirdo, probably the same one his mommy uses, and _hey_ —Richie can store that one away for a rainy day, see how long it takes to get Eddie all flailing and threatening the next time things go too quiet.

Richie doesn’t like the quiet. He doesn’t like where it could lead.

“Why do your toes smell like your mom?”

“Your ass has been there for twenty-three minutes!”

And oh, right, they’re still arguing. Richie hadn’t even realized he’d continued spewing shit at Eddie, who’d been spewing it right back with extra fervor. It’s their natural setting and there are no giggles or grins or cracks in their act, just pouted lips and high voices and eyes that shine like they weren’t truly living until they were living in these infuriating moments.

Richie doesn’t want to wonder why no one else cares that he’s been hogging the hammock for as long as he has. He doesn’t want to wonder why it’s just Eddie who wants his turn, who would rather climb in with him than grab the cloth and shake him out the way Stan would. He doesn’t want to, but it crosses his mind regardless.

_It doesn’t mean anything._

They grow quiet after Eddie plucks the comic straight from Richie’s hands, allowing the hammock to settle under their shapes, allowing them to once again able to hear the low thumping of the music and Ben’s little conversation with Beverly just a foot away. He’s talking about leaving for the summer, Richie thinks. Some program to teach him about architecture.

“I’ll do that,” Richie interrupts. One of his hands rests unthinkingly upon Eddie’s smooth calf, above the tight cuff of a sock, trying to make the little gremlin sit still. His arm tingles a little, probably from loss of circulation. And the heat on the back of his neck is because it’s as hot as the Satan’s balls today. “I’ll do anything to get the hell out of Derry.”

Richie reclaims his stolen comic by yanking it out of Eddie’s loose grasp. He hadn’t been reading it, had barely been rifling through the pages, but now he has nothing to focus on so his gaze stops on Richie’s face and doesn’t leave. The leg on Richie’s right has stilled, thanks to his grounding touch, but the one on his left has a mind of its own, kicking up to rest near Richie’s shoulder. Eddie stares at him with raised brows as he purposefully pesters Richie after his rushed admission, rubbing his socked foot against his cheek in a taunting caress.

Richie shoves that foot away with a scowl. He’s irrationally angry by the fact that the little shit’s feet don’t even _stink_.

“Man, when I graduate, I’m going to Florida.”

Mike had propped himself atop the swing at some point during The Richie and Eddie Comedy Hour. He looks at them with a smile that conveys all the happiness he feels for just being with the Losers and thinking about a future away from this shitshow.

“What’s in Florida, Mike?” Ben asks, curious and interested in a way that Richie thinks only Ben could be.

“I dunno,” he says, unable to stop himself from grinning at the idea. “You know, I guess it’s just a place I always wanted to go.”

“Stan, you should go with Mike to Florida.”

Richie’s focus is on the curly-haired boy who’d just sat down, back stiff and straight as a board, but he thinks Eddie’s biting back a grin, eyes screwed shut tight as he holds back laughter. Richie is hyper aware of sharp knuckles drag against the seam of his jeans, near the inside of his bent knee.

His comment does its job of catching Stan’s attention. When he looks over, Richie continues. 

“You already act eighty! You’d clean up with _all_ the grandmas.”

The kissy noises he makes gets some giggling—from Eddie, mostly, which puffs him up with pride—and crooked smiles. But not from Stan. He’s as serious as he’s ever been.

“Do… do you guys think we’ll still be friends?”

There’s a shift in the air that even Richie notices, mostly through the trepidation in Stan’s voice, and the question itself? Richie would never admit to thinking the same thing every now and then, when he says something a little too stupid or mean, takes a joke a little too far, pisses Eddie off in a way that’s terrifying instead of exhilarating.

But he and Stan have always been different, in some way. Stan being an uptight Jew and Richie being a trashmouthed f—

“When we’re older?” Stan prompts, eyes darting around the room when the silence stews for too long.

“What?” Ben shakes with kind laughter, like he can’t believe the question because he’s never entertained the idea. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Do—do any of your parents still hang out with their friends from middle school?”

 _No,_ Richie thinks. The Toziers hang out with a bunch of nosy assholes who smoke cigars and talk about politics and all the ways the _youth these days_ are ruining the good of America.

They’re so boring that Richie wants to cry, or maybe that part’s because his parents are always fixated on their friends and jobs and don’t have time to sit down for dinner most nights. Don’t have time time to ask how their son is doing outside of his surprisingly solid grades, don’t have time to ask about his best friends or if he’s made any new ones, don’t have time to ask why he acts up in class or why he’s been having trouble sleeping lately.

He watches Stan with a frown, not wanting to say he’s right, not wanting to even think it. He _hates_ when Stan _knows_.

Richie feels himself frowning just before his eyes narrow on instinct; because of Eddie’s foot, which has found its way to his face again, and because of the fucking _caressing._ When Richie doesn’t look his way the little fucknut just… just uses his toes to lift Richie’s glasses off of their perch on his nose, kicking them away to land on the floor with a clatter.

Stanley starts speaking again, but all Richie can do is roll his eyes at the jackass he calls his best friend and grit his teeth as Eddie slaps him on the cheek and temple with the flat of his foot.

Eddie doesn’t touch anyone the way he touches Richie. Never has and hopefully never will. It’s a simple fact of life. Eddie rarely touches anyone, too afraid he’ll catch their germs, but there are exceptions he makes on occasion—more and more these days, with all the Losers—and with Richie especially. Like now, here in the hammock, glued together by the sticky heat of their bodies. Like a few days prior when he’d ridden with Eddie all the way home after a handful of hours at the clubhouse, where he’d stayed up in Eddie’s _Leave It to Beaver_ bedroom for a handful more. Like then, at the quarry, when they’d swam close in cloudy water and Eddie had grabbed onto his head and shoulders, bony knees dug into Richie’s pale back, pretending to drown him in retaliation for whatever stupid comment he’d flung out into the air.

Stan’s question hits Richie harder, once he breaks it down. Judging by the way Bev starts puffing on her cigarette again, it hits her the same way. Richie Tozier can’t imagine ever _not_ being friends with Eddie Kaspbrak.

“—We all might be different.”

“We’ll always s-stay friends,” Bill says gently, believing each word. “I don’t think that just g-g-goes away because we get older.”

“Yeah, Stan, come on.” Bev’s smiling, though Richie doesn’t think it reaches her eyes quite right. “You don’t have to be so—”

**~*~**

“Sad.”

Richie’s back in the present, brought forth by Bev’s quiet utterance, breaking the memory they all seemed to have collectively shared. His vision is blurry behind his lenses.

Stanley… he _had_ been right. They stopped being friends when they left Derry, one by one. It’d been a forced separation caused by the town’s weird alien magic, but it’d been a separation nonetheless. They’d lost each other for over two decades and now, together again, even under extremely fucked up circumstances, Stan isn’t around to see it. To revel in all the memories that wouldn’t stop kicking them in the gut.

Richie’s tempted to ask Eddie what percentage of coma victims actually wake up, but he’s pretty sure no statistic in the world has ever taken into account unpredictable powers that can’t be explained. Not like Pennywise would somehow save their friend or anything, Richie’s an idiot but not a delusional one, it’s just… they can’t know for sure. Stanley isn’t dead yet.

But he’d been right about them. Richie still hates that.

“He was old before his time,” Ben’s gravelly voice murmurs.

“Yeah.” Eddie won’t look up from the floor. Richie wonders if his eyes are blurry, too. “Wonder what he—what he’s like, all grown up.”

“Probably what he was like as a kid,” Richie breathes. The weight of his words from earlier— _he’s a fucking pussy, he won’t show; he was the weakest_ —crash into him like a stampede. He meets Bill’s eye and manages to quirk his lips enough to convey a smile that hurts all the same. “The best.”

It soothes Bill as much as the other words had upset him. He tosses one of the shower caps to Richie, who doesn’t throw it down this time.

“Alright, Mike…”

The clubhouse suddenly feels stifling in a way it never used, especially when he catches sight of a heap that looks suspiciously like their old hammock. He and Eddie had shared it again, a couple times after the first. He’d climbed in with Richie, with his pointy elbows and yappy voice, after, what? A half an hour of Richie pushing his luck? He remembers feeling like his ass had fallen asleep and he’d curse himself for being stupid enough to test whether or not Eddie’s resolve would crumble to the point of deciding to share again, if he just waited long enough, and then he’d choke on his saliva because that scrappy little punk would practically straddle his stomach for lack of a better way of climbing in. His socks were always clean, a strange floral scent almost making him sneeze anytime those toes nearly went up Richie’s nostrils. He’d tickled the back of Eddie’s knees, sometimes, and laze in the braying laughter that followed.

“...What’re we doing here?”

“The ritual. To perform it, it requires a sacrifice.”

Oh, of course. What _else_ _?_ Richie would think Mike was pulling their leg if he didn’t look so grim.

“Sacrifice? I nominate Eddie!”

“Wait—” He sounds so much like he used to, betrayed by Richie’s words, that it takes everything in him not to laugh. “ _What?_ ”

“Because you’re little. You’ll fit on a barbecue.”

Eddie’s face manages to do two things at once: flood with relief at the realization that it was just a joke, like everything with Richie is, and then scrunch with indignation at being the butt of said joke, yet another to come out of Richie’s trashy mouth. Eddie had always been Richie’s favorite subject, after all. Years apart hadn’t changed that.

“I’m 5’9! That’s, like, average height in most of the world,” he grumbles, nodding along to his own words like that could make them any more truthful.

“It’s not that kind of s-ss-sacrifice, guys.” Bill, ever the party-pooper, interrupts. “Mike?”

“The past is buried, but you’re gonna have to dig it up. Piece by piece. And these pieces, these artifacts? That’s why we’re here. _They_ are what you’ll sacrifice. And since Stan isn’t here to find his… I figured we should all be there together to find his artifact.”

Eddie slides one of the caps he’d gotten from Bill onto his head. He keeps it on, unlike before, probably because Richie doesn’t say anything against it. He can’t. If he did it’d be some stupid flowery shit about how adorable he looks because _fuck_ , he does. Eddie is a forty year old man but still manages to be _cute_ , with his big eyes and bigger dimples.

“I think Bill just did that,” Eddie tells them factually.

A cute dumb idiot who’s definitely right.

They climb out of the clubhouse one by one, needing a little bit of help on the way up, unlike when they were spry and thirteen. Bev and Bill sit almost back to back on a rock near where Richie stands, scratching a hand through his hair like a madman. Now that he’s remembered Stan’s words about spiders, he thinks his younger self was a dumbfuck. He doesn’t want to get bitten by a widow or a recluse and kick it before all’s said and done. Dying by sewer clown is only marginally better, but oh well, they’re knee-deep in it now.

Once Mike’s done helping Ben get back out into the open air, Eddie ambles over to stand by Richie.

“Okay, so, where do we find our tokens?”

“Yeah, I gotta be honest, man! All due respect. This is fucking _stupid_ , alright?” Richie glances around at the others to gauge how they’re feeling. It’s hard to tell. “Why do we need tokens, alright? We already remember everything, uh… saving Bev, defeating It. I mean, we’re caught up!”

“Not everything,” Mike tells him, calm and collected and pissing Richie off. “We fought, but what happened after that? Before the house on Neibolt. _Think_.”

Richie’s lips part, but there’s a disconnect between his voice and his brain. Or, more accurately, his brain can’t remember shit but his voice wants to be heard regardless. Bill speaks before he does.

“We c-ca-can’t remember, can we?”

“See, there’s more to our story. What happened that summer. And those blank spaces, like pages torn out of a book? _That’s_ what you need to find. We need to split up.” Oh, _hell_ no. “You each need to find your artifact. Alone.” Eddie’s mouth stretches into an incredulous smile that says ‘ _get a load of this_ ,’ the lines on his forehead scrunching like he’s part bulldog. Richie feels those eyes on him while he squeezes his own shut and shakes his head, trying to keep all the bullshit at bay with a single motion. “That’s important. When you do, meet me at the library tonight.”

“Yeah, I gotta—I gotta say, statistically speaking? You look at survival scenarios, we’re gonna do much better as a group.”

He looks to Richie once more, silently waiting for the backup he’d sometimes receive when it was him against everyone else. This time is no different.

“Yeah, splitting up would be, _dumb_ , man.” Eddie points to Richie like he’s never been more right in his life and it bolsters him. “Okay, we gotta go together, alright? We were together that summer, right?”.

“No. Not that wh-whole s-summer.”

( _No! No next time, Bill!_

_Eddie was nearly killed! And look at this motherfucker! He’s leaking hamburger helper!_

_Fine! I’ll be forty and far away from here!_

_Georgie is dead! Stop trying to get us killed, too._

_Take it back!_

A sting to Richie’s face, blood on his lip.

_You’re just a bunch of losers! Fuck off!_

_This is what it wants! It wants to divide us! We were all together when we hurt It, that’s why we’re still alive_ _!_ )

Richie hadn’t remembered that until this very second. Despite all the fear and death and stress he’d felt during the summer of 1989, the worst part by far had been when they weren’t together. When they were scared and alone. Isolated. Hell, Richie’s felt some form of those three things for the past twenty-seven years, but now, _knowing_ what it was he’d been missing the entire time? Now it’s worse.

Mike and Bill won’t budge. They can’t afford to screw up their chances of success by being gargantuan pussies, so they reluctantly begin parting ways, sharing anxious glances all the while.

The dread that’d been stagnant in Richie’s body steadily grows and grows and grows with each step he takes back into town, already in his own little bubble despite all of them heading in the same general direction. He doesn’t want to dig through the battered box he knows he’ll be uncovering, but what he wants doesn’t much matter in Derry. It never did.


	2. Thanks For The Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [warnings for: f slur (arcade scene), some internalized homophobia, and some major introspection/pining]

_Thanks for the memories, Derry!_

The Capitol’s marquee is pure irony, which is not lost on Richie. He wonders if Pennywise is fucking with him the way It had inside Jade of the Orient. If this is some sort of message that’s supposed to chill Richie down to the bone, make him turn around and run like he’d wanted to before, make him choose one possible death (because that’s what Bev had said, that they would die if the didn’t even _try_ to kill It) over another, Stanley Style.

But it doesn’t turn him away, nor do the windows taped over with newspaper and _For Lease_ signs, nor do the images he can feel building up inside him, threatening to mask his vision with frightening reminders of the past. He keeps going because he’s supposed to and because he’d be lost if not for Mike’s clear instructions still rumbling around in his head.

There’s a break in the door already, the perfect size to slip his arm through, so he reaches through to jiggle the handle and step inside, the soles of his shoes crunching over shards of glass. He’s almost saddened by the sorry state of this place.

Richie loved The Capitol, once. Can recall so much on so little. The stench of sweaty teens and overbuttered popcorn, booming sounds of speakers reverberating from down the hall, tinny shouts and electric music exploding from arcade cabinets in the lobby, colorful lights flashing across movie posters in a way that always made them come to life.

The photo booth.

_Eddie kicking the wall in excitement, leading the parade. Richie at his back, reaching out to pat it, empty cups tossed in full trashcans. Ridiculous stories and trailing laughter flowing free. Pulled in by small, confident hands. Shoved at and surrounded by the greatest friends in the world._

Richie stops in front of the _Street Fighter_ cabinet and stares at its black screen, covered in dust and graffiti and cobwebs.

( _Is that how you wanna spend your summer? Inside of an arcade?_ )

Richie had spent countless of hours with the other Losers—inside the clubhouse or at the quarry, riding bikes around town or wading around in shitty water, getting lost deep underground but always finding their way home with each other. He’d spent some moments at The Capitol, of course; watching movies with his friends and throwing popcorn at unsuspecting victims sitting ahead of them, playing a quick round of whatever game was available out front until he was dragged back into the open air, usually by Eddie or Stan, so that they could make the most of their time together before curfew.

He loved The Capitol, once.

He hated it, too.

There’s a machine behind Richie that he goes to on instinct. He blows some dust away and drops a few coins into slim slot, twisting the crank until a token—a literal token—drops down onto the tray below.

 _No Cash Value_.

Richie takes a deep breath.

**~*~**

There’s a boy next to him, one he’s never seen in Derry before, not until he’d started coming here alone. He’s blond with a big mouth and he doesn’t complain about playing with Richie, doesn’t complain about his hyper-focus and competitive nature, doesn’t complain when Richie glances at the side of his face for a beat too long.

He’s blond and his name is Connor and he looks a little bit like Stan, Richie tells himself. That’s why he keeps staring, to make sure it isn’t _actually_ Stan beside him, having slipped in without Richie’s notice. He doesn’t look a thing like _Eddie,_ though, and Richie’s not sure if that’s good or bad.

Connor is… cute. Richie let’s himself think such a thought because he’s all alone here with nothing to keep him in check. The Losers won’t catch him staring, won’t be able to read his face now that the mask is getting heavier to hold up, because they don’t care about him anyway. Bill had punched him in the fucking _face_. That means Friendship Over, as far as Richie’s concerned. So, Connor is okay. _Cute_. Not really like Eddie, so much, but still enough to make him feel somewhat out of sorts.

He seems cool, too. And nice. Approachable. He has an easy smile and when he tells Richie “ _You’re fuckin’ good,_ ” it’s like he doesn’t care that he just lost because playing together was fun enough. He reaches for a low-five, his fingers touching Richie’s for a tick too long, and it’s not so much the gesture as it is the potential _meaning_ behind it that kicks Richie’s pulse into overdrive.

Connor doesn’t look anything like Eddie, _isn’t_ anything like Eddie, and maybe that’s both good _and_ bad. Because Richie… Richie can admit to himself fully, as alone as he’s been these last few days, that what he feels around other boys isn’t _normal,_ that what he feels around Eddie is even worse. It’s different than friendship, similar to what Bill feels for Bev. _Not_ what Ben feels for her because, _shit_ , he’s cheesy as hell, staring with starry eyes and dopey grins. Bill isn’t much better, admittedly, but he has a tighter hold on his emotions in that regard, which is something Richie tries to emulate to the best of his ability.

But they all still _know_ —what Bill feels for Bev, what Ben feels for her, and Richie thinks he might feel something like that for Eddie. It’s not _romantic_ , per se, because romance means making out and cuddling and getting married and all that Adult crap that’s a little bit daunting and a little bit gross. It’s more like… like a _crush_. Like those kids at school who giggle and hold hands and pass notes in class and kiss in front of their lockers or under the bleachers or on the fucking _sidewalk_ where Richie needs to walk, thank you very much. But maybe that’s romance, too. The precursor to the things you associate with parents and older people, the start of an emotion that’s easy to feel but impossible to describe.

Bill and Ben would do _all_ of those things with Bev, if they could. And Richie is terrified to understand that he would do all of those things with Eddie, too. He’s only kidding himself if he attempts to pretend otherwise.

 _Whatever_ it is, this all-consuming sensation, Richie feels it. For Eddie, in particular. Thinks he has since before this summer even began. It freaks him out, makes him angry, renders him tongue-tied and melancholic. But it makes him feel _good_ just as often, n moments where he doesn’t overthink what it means if his heart thumps thunderously, his belly twisting into complicated knots, when it’s Eddie shoving at him with his tiny hands or it’s Eddie’s shoulder brushing his when he leans over to yell in Richie’s face; when it’s Eddie’s cackling laugh after a joke lands right or it’s Eddie’s smile when they’re in private and no one else is looking and only Richie can see and he wonders if Eddie _knows_ only Richie can see and that’s why he does it just so.

Eddie’s voice, fast and harsh and high like a mouse; Eddie’s skin, smooth and clear and warm like sunshine; Eddie's dark, expressive eyes; Eddie’s wide, filthy mouth; Eddie’s obnoxious beeping watch, his stupid fannypack(s), his naive and unwavering confidence.

_Eddie Eddie Eddie_

Richie feels things for Eddie that confuse him and hurt him and make him so, so _happy_ that it keeps him up at night for reasons that vary drastically.

But it’s not _just_ Eddie, is it? It’s not just Richie being weird about his closest friend because, although he cares deeply for all the Losers, _Eddie_ is the one he can say without a doubt that he _loves_ terribly, whatever the context might be. But it’s _more_ than Eddie, when it comes down to it, because the boy beside him isn’t as cute as his best friend, isn’t as feisty or fun or annoying or amazing, but he makes Richie _feel_ something, just by looking at him, just by having his attention, even if that something _is_ a dull sliver of what Eddie ignites in him.

Boys aren’t supposed to like other boys. Richie’s been trying super hard to get with that memo, to not be so much of a fucking freak on top of being a major loser. Nothing ever seems to work.

Connor looks down and away from Richie when the screen loops back around to the one that tells them to insert a coin, and say, “I, uh, I gotta go,” causing some internal panic. Not just because Richie’s brain thinks ‘ _this boy is cute_ ’ but because it also informs him that _‘if he leaves you’ll be alone again,_ ’ and he’s not sure which of those things is the lesser of two evils right now.

“Hey! Um.” Richie reaches down to pick up a token—No Cash Value—and holds it in the air like an awkward idiot, staring at the boy with huge eyes that his glasses no doubt make even fucking huger. “How ‘bout we go again? Play some more, y’know?” The boy watches him carefully. Richie swallows hard, shakes off the unease. “Only if you want to.”

His offer is in the middle of being considered when a few unwelcome, familiar faces step into the lobby.

Richie sees Henry first, slinking closer with his pals, and Henry’s face always looks odd but something new and dangerous crosses over it the second his gaze lands on the boy Richie had been playing with. As if sensing the shift in the air, Connor looks over his shoulder for a quick moment and then back to Richie once more.

“Dude, why’re you being weird?” he spits, the friendliness from before completely gone. “I’m not your fucking boyfriend!”

Richie nearly chokes on his tongue. His body feels like it’s been submerged in lava.

“Whoa! I-I didn’t—”

His attempt at placation goes unnoticed as the chatter around him goes deadly quiet, and soon enough the whole room turns to stare at Richie Tozier as he stands in front of the _Street Fighter_ cabinet, looking like the world’s biggest fucking dumbass with burning ears and a useless token clutched tightly within a bony fist.

“The fuck’s going on here?” Henry asks—loud, for everyone to hear—as he stalks slowly closer.

“You assholes didn’t tell me your town was full of little fairies!”

Richie twitches. _No_ , he wants to yell, _I’m not, fuck you!_ But he can’t because… because it’s _true_ , isn’t it? He’d let himself exist with it for once, without immediately shoving those urges into the darkest corners of his mind. He let himself be vulnerable, knowing he didn’t have anything else to lose, but this? Richie didn’t think—

He didn’t think. He never does.

“Richie fuckin’ Tozier? What, you tryin’ to bone my little cousin?”

Every single pair of eyes staring at Richie amplifies the shame flaring through his whole body, draining his blood to saturate his veins. He feels frozen and burning all at once. Feels like he might puke on his own shoes or start bawling like a baby right there in The Capitol, a place he always thought he could count on to keep him safe.

“GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE, FAGGOT!”

Richie jolts, electrocuted by that six letter word, his chest seizing with the hatred it implies. He isn’t the only target of such accusations. There’s Eddie, for his size and peculiar ways; Bill for his soft voice and emotional vulnerabilities; Stan when the insults about being a Jew aren’t effective enough. If _they_ were here then maybe this situation wouldn’t be so bad and Richie could ignore it or laugh it off like usual. Maybe even find his voice, wherever its gone, and fight back.

If they were here—well, they would’ve seen him playing with this boy, this _fuckhead,_ and maybe then it’d be _worse_.

What would they say, if they knew?

What would _Eddie_ say?

Richie begins stepping back slowly, turning just enough to make sure no one’s blocking his way to the door, his lips still parted in shock, breath stuttering in his throat. _This isn’t happening_ , he tells himself. _It isn’t happening, it can’t be happening_ —

It feels like he’s falling through a nightmare, convulsing on the bed as he’s thrust into a wakefulness, emerging into reality that’s as dark as the scenarios he’s lately realized his brain is capable of creating. But there’s no blanket to hide under here, no time to count to one hundred in hopes of everything turning out okay.

“FUCKING _MOVE!_ ”

Richie spins all the way around then, shoves out the door and _runs._ His sneakers slap against the pavement as he goes and goes and doesn’t look back.

His feet take him away, to the center of Memorial Park. It’s surprisingly empty for this time of day, which suits Richie just fine, seeing as there’s no one around to witness him crumbling apart.

Richie almost laughs at himself as he comes to the obvious conclusion that it’s _good_ Henry’s Little Cousin didn’t look or act like Eddie. If he did then Richie would have a permanent image of _Eddie_ saying those things to him _(I’m not your fucking boyfriend!_ ) and while Richie isn’t certain that Eddie wouldn’t ever _think_ what Henry and Connor said, wouldn’t ever share those same sentiments if he were to find out just how _sick_ Richie might be, he _is_ certain that he doesn’t want those kinds of thoughts tainting the image of his best friend. His crush. His _love_.

Richie _knows_ Eddie would never hurt him like that. Even if he decided to cut all ties, there’s no way he’d hate him just for being himself, not when that’s all he’s ever been. Richie searches for solace in that belief, unwilling to consider the possibility of coming up empty handed.

He sighs dejectedly and passes the giant Paul Bunyan statue to plop down onto a nearby bench, glasses coming off as soon as his ass hits the wood. It’s here that he cries, though he doesn’t want to, into his sweaty palms. He’s not sobbing like he thought he’d be. There are barely any tears, his breakdown consisting mostly of shaky whimpers and shakier hands, of sad eyes and quivering lips and dry heaves that are torn straight from somewhere broken and deep.

“Want a kiss, Richie?”

He jerks up with a start, slamming his glasses back onto his face just in time notice that the statue is gone.

 _The statue is gone_.

The statue—

is in front of him, with bats flying out of its nose and mouth— _Its nose, which fucking falls off! Falls off like Syphilis, oh god, oh shit, like Eddie’s fucking leper!_ —and it’s roaring in his face, louder than the screams that tear through Richie’s throat. 

Paul Bunyan raises its axe to slam down onto Richie, who barely has time to fling himself off the bench, to roll away, before feeling wood splinter and shatter and graze his legs.

He runs again, not looking back, can hardly stay on his feet with the fucking ground shaking beneath him like a massive quake. He yanks his glasses off to wipe on his shirt because he can’t _see_ through the dried tears but he can’t see without them on, either, and _oh shit!_ Paul Bunyan slashes at him, behind him, stabs at the ground where he just stepped, and Richie is knocked off his feet roughly after another moment of evasion, dirty glasses flying from his grasp. He curls in on himself as the statue leans over to roar in his face once more, but there’s a giggle that follows in the echo, high-pitched and demented.

“It’s not real!”

His fingers spasm uncontrollably while he shouts at himself, eyes squeezed shut, shivering on the grass. He _knows_ what this is. An illusion. A trick of the mind. Bill had been right about that before, at the house on Neibolt.

“It’s not real! It’s not real! It’s not real!”

_it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real_

It’s _not._

The noises cease.

Richie turns over carefully, scrambling to regain his sight. When he finally looks up… there’s nothing to see. Paul Bunyan is back where he always was, as still as a statue should be. And the ground? There aren’t any marks. The bench isn’t broken. Richie isn’t dead.

He wishes he had Eddie’s inhaler to help him catch his breath.

“I think I just shit my pants,” he says to no one, all alone yet again. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

**~*~**

Richie is alone now, too. Just like then.

He’s forty years old and gasping over a long-forgotten, quickly-remembered moment from decades past. There are people in Memorial Park, where’s he’s shocked to realize he’s now standing, and they’re talking and laughing about nothing in particular, and that damn Paul Bunyan statue hasn’t moved in twenty-seven years. Probably.

The memory’s got him rattled still, buzzing with shock and confusion and pain and _shame_ , the exact same way he’d felt at the tender age of thirteen. It throws him for a fucking loop, despite all that he knows now.

Richie is gay. A queer. A flaming homosexual. Whatever the fuck anyone wants to call him. He’s known it for years and years—since 1988, probably, though he hadn’t let himself acknowledge it until that crucial summer in 1989—and he works with people, talks with people, parties with people who are out and proud and don’t give a shit about the assholes who cast them dirty looks or call them dirty names or gossip about their _dirty little secrets_. Because it’s _not_ a secret, not for them, but it is for Richie. Always has been.

Some people suspect, he thinks. Possibly his manager, who’s a short and bossy fast-talker who gets shit done and—ah, _fuck._ Richie’s never been attracted to Steve _that_ way, but he’d felt comfortable around him almost immediately upon meeting, their first interaction holding a sense of familiarity he could never put a finger on. Richie had kept Steve tethered to his bubble when few others could rarely ever come close and it makes him feels silly now that he recognizes his own subconscious bias for what it is.

The Bigger Picture issue isn’t that Richie is gay, necessarily. It isn’t that he likes broad shoulders and flat chests and bushy eyebrows and dark eyes and _dicks dicks dicks_ , it’s… well, it’s that he likes Eddie. _Loves_ Eddie. Has been carrying a twenty-seven (potentially twenty-eight) year old torch for Eddie, without even knowing who Eddie _was_. He could always just feel that there was someone in his past, someone from a long-forgotten fever dream he must’ve had during his formative years, someone who he loved more than anyone else in the world. that rang so loudly in the back of his mind that he had no choice but to skip past them to preserve his sanity. But he’d never gotten over it. Never really could.

Man, whoever said you can’t miss what you don’t know was a fucking liar.

The gay thing _is_ a big obstacle. If it wasn’t then he’d be Out already. He’d be joking about imaginary boyfriends instead of imaginary girlfriends, he’d be going on real dates instead of getting so drunk he can’t remember what the guy he gave a handjob to in the backseat of his car even looked like. _Probably like Eddie,_ his brain unhelpfully supplies, so he swiftly tells it to _shut the fuck up._

But it’s the Gay Thing only because it’s also the Eddie Thing, and it doesn’t make sense but it also kind of does, now that he remembers, and _shit_ he’d tried so hard to deny it when he saw Eddie for the first time again in that Chinese restaurant, but his denial had been over the moment Eddie said, while staring into Richie’s very _soul_ , “oh, look at these guys!”

Richie’s been fucked his whole life because of that raging ball of cuteness, and not even in the fun way.

“Canal Days Festival! Closing performance is tonight!”

Some guy startles Richie out of his reverie as he passes, slapping a flier onto Richie’s chest on the way by.

“Hope to see you there, _handsome_.”

Richie’s gaze snaps up. The stranger turns as he walks, smiling slyly, and Jesus, his _face_ —it’s pale, _dead_ , bloodied and busted, distorted by gaping gashes and lifeless eyes. He tosses the rest of the fliers over his shoulder, scattering them across the ground, and Richie tears himself away from the gruesome sight to look at the sheet of paper in his hand.

_In Loving Memory of_

_Richard Tozier_

_1976-2016_

Richie’s eyes widen, all the hairs on his body standing on end as he realizes he knows this from before, from something else…

( _It says I’m missing!_

_That’s my shirt, that’s my hair, that’s my face!_

_That’s my name! That’s my age! That’s the date!_

_Am I missing? Am I gonna go missing?_ )

“Did you miss me, Richie?”

His heart instantly falls out of his ass.

“Oh, _fuck._ ”

It’s the clown, of course. Sitting up on Paul Bunyan. A triangle of balloons in hand.

Hadn’t Eddie mentioned that, before? It’d been just the two of them in the clubhouse, lagging behind while everyone left, determined to push the limits of Sonia Kaspbrak’s patience every night she wanted her precious son home three hours before curfew. He’d asked Richie if he really hadn’t seen the clown on his own like the rest of them—before Neibolt, before the dummy covered in maggots, before Eddie’s head popping out of tattered mattress, before he held onto Eddie’s face when he thought they were going to die and all he wanted was for Eddie to know Richie would always be with him—and all Richie could say was a truthful _yeah._

But Eddie’s encounter had shaken him to the core and the fact that they hadn’t yet known, at the time, what was _real-_ real and what were simply games they’d become pawns in never helped the matter, either. He’d seen the nasty fucking leper and the creepy fucking clown, and while hadn’t gone into great detail for Richie he _had_ explained that those things were versions of _It,_ had mentioned coming face-to-face with them both in the Well House, and It had told Eddie that he’d float too while carrying a bundle of balloons in the shape of a triangle.

It’s fucked up how much he wishes he could go back to those times. At least he’d know what’s coming.

“ _Fuck.”_

“’Cause _I’ve_ missed _you!_ ”

The clown looks like it did all those years ago: huge-ass, peanut head, skin painted white as bird shit, yellow eyes pointing left and right, crooked buckteeth surrounded by red lips with edges running up from the corners (like blood, defying gravity) in slick lines that surpass bulging brow bones.

The frown It wears is mocking, a purposefully poor imitation of true sadness. A feigned version of the loneliness Richie feels all too well.

The people behind him are staring, just like at the arcade. Their gazes burn into him, digging up that old ignominy.

“No one wants to play with the clown anymore! Play a game with me, would ya? How ‘bout _Street Fighter?_ ” ( _Get the fuck outta here, faggot!_ )“Oh, _yes!_ You like that one, don’t you? _Heh-heh_.” Pennywise freezes unnervingly, one eye slowly sliding in another direction, curled lips dripping with drool. His twisted smile stretches. “Or maybe… _truth or dare?_ ”

“ _Jesus_.”

It punches out of Richie without control, feet stumbling him a step back. Not _that_ game. He remembers making excuses and hightailing it out of area anytime those words were so much as whispered.

“Oh, you wouldn’t want anyone to pick truth though, would ya, Richie?” The clown floats up off the statue, descending _down, down down_ , arms and legs moving with unnatural grace as he drifts closer. “You wouldn’t want anyone to know what you’re hiding. _Heh-heh-heh_.”

Faint music rings in in his ears suddenly, throwing him into dizzy spell. The staring crowd begins to sway.

“ _I know your secret! Your dirty little secret!_ ” the monster crows. _“Oh, I know your secret, your dirty little secret!_ Should I tell them, Richie?”

Pennywise hits the ground with a jingling stomp, grinning in the face of the one thing Richie could never overcome. He has no choice but to stumble a back.

“This isn’t happening,” he whispers, arms locked to his sides, squeezing his eyes shut tight like he had that last time he’d been accosted here, in this very park. “This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. _It isn’t real._ ”

The music dims until it fades away entirely, erased out of existence by Richie’s quiet chant. It’ll be gone if he opens his eyes, right? If he _believes?_ That’s how it goes. Pennywise will be gone and Richie can get the fuck out of Derry for _good_.

He chances a glance after the heaviness in the air seems to settle.

Richie belts out a startled shout when Pennywise jerks toward him with a maniacal laugh. It could grab Richie and bite his head clean off where he stands, but It doesn’t. Pennywise wants to _play_ with him instead, which is never a good sign, so Richie makes a break for it before any reconsidering can be done.

Richie runs like he had at thirteen—chased out of an arcade, chased out of a park, because of his _secret_.

“Come back and play!” Pennywise growls behind him, voice distorted and grating. “Come back and play with the clown!”

He can’t do this. He really, really, _really_ can’t do this. Not again. What’s the point? He’s reached rock bottom and there’s no way out, he’s smart enough to get that. He’s smart enough not to give Derry the satisfaction of taking yet another thing from him, too. His fucking _life_.

When Richie gets back to the Town House, shoulders hunched so tightly his muscles ache, fists tucked so deeply into jacket pockets he feels the seams might give way, he convinces himself that spending his last moments alone is a better alternative to wasting them in an effort to keep a dumb promise he made as a mouthy kid.

“Move,” he grunts, to Bev and Ben as he heads for the stairs. “ _Move._ ”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m leaving.”

“What?” Ben, always the innocent, sounds shocked at the news, and Richie can’t help but hate him a little bit for it. Whatever he’d witnessed out there… it wasn’t _anything_ like what Richie had been forced to relive, forced to remember. If it had been then he’d be racing to get the hell out of Derry, too. “You can’t leave, man! We split, we all die!”

“Yeah, I’ll take my chances.” Stay or go, mo matter what they decide, It will always win. “We’re gonna die anyway.”

*** * ***

Ben tries. He pleads and rationalizes until he’s blue in the face, hoping to tempt Richie into staying, and he deserves credit for that if for nothing else. But even Ben’s smokin’ hot bod and sleepy puppy dog peepers can’t get Richie to stay another minute in this hellhole.

If _Eddie_ had asked him, if he’d begged or bullied or even just _believed_ that they could finish this a second time around, then Richie probably would have caved. He hates to acknowledge such a weakness in his determination, but that’s just cold, hard facts. Eddie, with his fucking _Bambi_ eyes, could get Richie to do pretty much anything. But Eddie _isn’t_ here and Richie doesn’t know where the fuck he’s at.

Part of Richie wants to stay put long enough to make sure Eddie is okay, that he’ll follow him to safety outside these cursed city limits, even if it means forgetting and never seeing each other again, but then _that_ would mean risking Eddie actually being able to convince him to stay and _mmmm nope_ , fuck that. Maybe once Eddie realizes Richie made good on his initial promise to flee he’ll grab his massive suitcases and fly off into the sunset, too.

He’s got a wife waiting for him back home, after all.

Richie’s fingers grip the steering wheel in a death-grip, making his bones creak.

He hadn’t known what he’d been expecting—well, he hadn’t been expecting _anything_ , because he didn’t remember he was supposed to—but it sure as shit wasn’t Eddie being married. And to a _woman_. He hadn’t thought that far ahead, he supposed. There hadn’t exactly been a lot of time to consider what his long-lost teenager love might be up to in present times when you’d only found out about through a phone call hours prior.

It’s not as if he’d thought Eddie would be chronically single (like Richie) or that he’d be hot under the collar for other dudes ( _also_ like Richie). Maybe there’d been times in the past where he’d let himself hope because of something Eddie did or said, but there’d never been anything more than wishful thinking on Richie’s side, a fire fueled by their close bond, and nothing but friendship on Eddie’s. So it’s not like he assumed shit.

It’d been a slap in the face when he’d found out that Eddie had a _wife_. The sting of that particular revelation throbs under Richie’s faux thick skin.

Richie, in all his everlasting bitterness and anger, mentally says _fuck it_ and yanks out his phone, typing ‘ _edward kaspbrak insurance manhattan_ ’ into Google. It takes no time at all for him to find Eddie’s work page—and it strikes Richie just how _easy_ this was; it strikes him that he could have done this years ago if only he would’ve known to—and then a few seconds more to find his Facebook.

He sees the name Myra Kaspbrak first, then sees the picture that accompanies it.

And ho-ho- _holy shit_ , but that’s fucking Sonia Kaspbrak with cakey makeup and a blond dye-job, no two ways about it! _What the actual fuck_.

Richie shuts his eyes, presses his knuckles beneath his glasses to rub at the lids until he sees red, blinks them open to look again.

Out of all the times Richie had joked about fucking and marrying Mrs. K, Eddie had gone and done it himself, the bastard. What is he even supposed to _think_ about this information? Richie truly doesn’t know. Could it _mean_ something? Possibly? Other than Eddie having a strange form of the Oedipal Complex because this shit can’t honestly be real. He’d hated what his mother did to him and would never have gone near _anyone_ who looked or acted like her, if he’d been in his right mind.

But who is Richie to say what, exactly, Eddie Kaspbrak’s right mind _is?_ They were sixteen the last time they’d spoken. Maybe Richie doesn’t know anything about this current Eddie at all, as much as it pains him to consider.

He drops his phone onto the passenger seat with a hefty sigh, letting it rest near his duffel bag, and wiggles his arms to loosen then ache in his shoulders.

As he crawls through the streets of Derry, Richie can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if they _had_ remembered each other. If they’d kept in contact after high school, well into their twenties, their thirties. Eddie probably still would’ve married a woman. Someone better for him, though; _not_ a clone of his overbearing mother. He doesn’t entertain any of those old wistful wishes that Eddie might’ve one day been his because _obviously_ that wouldn’t be the case. Eddie never wanted to be sick or infected, that was his biggest fear, and Richie never would’ve— _never_ would’ve…

No. Fucking _stop_. Maybe it’s the freshness of his encounter with Pennywise at Memorial Park, but Richie is so _over_ this bullshit. Being gay isn’t a sickness, even if some days he can’t shake the sniffles that part of himself seems to bring. _Derry_ is the sickness, through and through, _not_ Richie, and his dirty little secret is only dirty because _everything_ in Derry is. Richie can’t spread his feelings to other people just by existing.

He can’t help who he is and he shouldn’t have to, shouldn’t want to, but this town fucks him up so bad and Eddie… well, Eddie fucks him up worse. He hasn’t even _done_ anything and Richie’s still gone.

He’s always been gone for Eddie.

Richie lifts his foot off the gas, car creeping slower and slower and slower, as a new-old memory starts to take shape. He tries to push it aside but is swept away, headfirst, by the rush of the undertow

**~*~**

_It’s not a very good idea, all things considered._

_After a summer of nothing but torture from an evil shape-shifting entity dressed up like a psychotic clown, none of them much felt like hunkering down with each other for a night of cheesy horror flicks and an all-you-can-eat sodium buffet. But they would anyway. Because each of them needed it more than they realized and because it’d be the last time the Losers, all lucky seven of them, would be together for quite some time._

_It’s September and school’s starting in a few days, just after Beverly’s set to move away with her aunt to Portland, probably never to be seen or heard from again. Dramatics of a teenage boy are to blame for that thought, mostly, though perhaps even a little bit of residual fear. The Losers would surely be scarred by more than just the cuts on their palms and, in Stanley’s case, their faces._

_But they’re lucky, in a sense. Beverly had been ready to leave after that day with the glass shard, practically before the blood from her wound could fully dry, until something miraculous had stalled her aunt. Almost as if Derry was trying to give a little back to them with this one tiny favor._

_It’d be enough for now. They hoped._

_Whatever memories that would be ingrained into their minds might one day fade, same as the freaky “vision” Bev claimed to have seen in that fuckass clown’s Deadlights, but the images were still far too fresh to revisit freely. So it’s not a very good idea, not even to Richie’s mile-a-minute brain, but it might just be the best one their little club has had all summer._

_They’d met outside the clubhouse, one by one, without so much as a call to each other; guided by the same invisible force that had pushed them through the sewers and beyond, out the other side with the truth and, remarkably, their lives. Richie had contemplated ringing Eddie before he’d meandered out of his empty house, only deciding against it when the prospect of having to talk to Mrs. K started twisting the frayed edges of his anger. He was still pissed about what she’d done to Eddie, how she’d tricked him into thinking he was sicker than a fucking stray dog just to be able to leash him properly. That fucking bitch with her fucking gazebos and her fucking—Well, Richie knew it wasn’t worth it. He’d hopped on his bike and pedaled leisurely through the crossing streets of Derry, looking over his shoulder more times than he’d care to count._

_He’d seen Bill’s bike, Silver, before he saw the boy himself, a tinge of relief having washed over Richie at the sudden comfort of knowing he wouldn’t be alone. In fact, half the gang were already been sat in a semi-circle when he’d finally walked through the clearing, scratching at his matted curls and shivering against a cool breeze that caressed his sweat-slicked skin._

_Beverly had been pressed against a tree with her fingers wrapped absently around the key hanging from her neck, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. Bill sat close at her side with Ben hunched at an awkward angle halfway in front of her crisscrossed legs. Locating Eddie took several seconds longer, but Richie’s eyes were trained to spot the small, dark-haired boy faster than he could anticipate Retsu’s next attack. Richie didn’t like seeing Eddie all by his lonesome, yanking at yellowing leaves like he was getting paid for it to trim that tree._

_He hadn’t expected Stan or Mike to be around, but he’d been disappointed by their absence anyhow._

_“Hey, chucklefucks,” Richie said to his despondent crowd, letting his bike teeter over into the brush farther ahead of those parked near leveled dirt. Bill had glanced up for a few seconds, then down again as if not seeing Richie at all. At least Eddie kept his gaze on him, even if he didn’t seem very interested either. “This is the shittiest orgy I’ve ever seen! C’mon, guys and gal.”_

_Eddie, good ol’ Eddie, had snorted despite himself._

_“I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of orgies, Rich.”_

_That high-pitched, too-fast mumbling put Richie at a familiar ease._

_“Yeah, your mom can tell you all about it.”_

_Eddie had to twist to show Richie the middle finger of his unbroken hand, but he’d certainly went that extra mile._

_“Wh-what’s up, Richie?”_

_“I should ask you guys the same thing. I mean, you got ol’ stick in the mud over there, and Bev acting like she’s a fucking poster hanging on Ben’s ceiling, what kind of party do you expect this to be?”_

_“Don’t be an asshole,” Bev drawled while Ben burst into flames and Richie tried not to look bothered._

_Bill frowned._

_“It wasn’t—”_

_“A bullshit one! The worst!” Richie interjected. “But now I’m here, so—”_

_“We’ll continue to suffer, only now without our well-earned peace and quiet thanks to your sorry ass?”_

_Richie couldn’t help but smile at Eddie’s retort. He never had to try too hard to keep up. Years of hanging out with the self-professed Trashmouth seemed to have improve Eddie’s already colorful vocabulary._

_“Good one, Eddie Spaghetti!”_

_Those round brown eyes narrowed beneath furrowing brows, his frown deepening at the nickname._

_“Don’t call me that.”_

_He never seemed to mind whenever anyone else called him a nickname, it only ever hit a nerve when it was Richie doing it. He merely ignored the demand, having chosen to instead plop himself down beside his glaring friend, steering clear of the little love triangle that rested a few feet away._

_“So what’re we gonna do, Big Bill? Sit on our asses all day? We could at least go to the arcade…” He’d gone back since Henry’s outburst, since the final attack, and while the occasional stare made Richie’s skin crawl with lingering shame and anxiety he remained mostly ignored. Purposefully avoided, sometimes, but he had his friends back so he didn’t much mind. “Get some_ Street Fighter _in before we’re back to dumpster diving.”_

_“We probably won’t need to,” Ben had replied softly. He’d twisted around just enough to get a glimpse of Richie and Eddie in his peripheral, plump face flushing red with the effort. “I mean… you heard about Henry’s goons, right? And his dad. And—”_

_“And Henry’s gonna be whiter than a fucking ghost for the next 50 years, living off pudding pops and sleeping on padded flooring,” Eddie mumbled. “Yeah, we heard.”_

_“He’ll be the only person taking more Xannies than you!”_

_“Do you even know what Xanax is?”_

_“How’d Bowers even survive that fall? Mike freaking clobbered him—"_

_“Guys, stop.”_

_The two obeyed Beverly, though only after Eddie had grumbled that he never took Xanax and that all his pills had been bullshit, anyway. Richie patted his back and squinted over at the Bev through the afternoon sun._

_“I don’t want Henry Bowers or It or my dad or—or any of that shit to be the last conversation we have before I leave, okay? Can we just… talk about something else?”_

_The sudden assertion that this little half-assed meeting in the barrens, still two members short, would most likely be their last had been what sowed the good not-good idea in the first place. And that’s how Operation: Best Night Ever had been conceived._

_There’d been no arguments on where that future night of fun would take place because there weren’t very many options. Bill didn’t like spending much time in his own home and having so many kids around his parents, around that second bedroom that would forever be bereft of the joy it once held, was out of the question. Beverly’s apartment had been a solid no, with her father recovering from the head wound she’d inflicted and all her things having already been packed away. She and her aunt had taken to staying at the Town House while waiting and there would’ve been no way to let six boys crowd around the one room they’d been sharing. Ben didn’t think his quiet, cookie-cutter household would welcome such loud guests for more than the quick run-through they’d had before, so he didn’t even bother asking._

_Mike’s farm would’ve seemed like a stellar option, if it hadn’t been for Eddie’s real allergies and Stan’s parents protesting him being too far out of their sights, as well as Mike’s own grumpy grandfather warding them off with threats that weren’t veiled one bit._

_Stanley’s answer had been an outright no, while Eddie’s had been a more reluctant decline. Mrs. K wouldn’t have allowed them do anything but sit quietly in the kitchen anyway, if she let them in at all. That left Richie himself as the only viable host and he’d been more than willing to welcome the Losers into his lonely little abode once he’d stopped to think about it. With his dad “working” later and later and the pattern of when exactly his mother would be home for the night having become increasingly unpredictable, Richie jumped at the chance to fill the usual eerie silence with more than just stupid laugh tracks playing over even stupider TV shows._

_“We gotta send Molly Ringwald out with a real rager, guys!”_

_Once Richie reminded them that that their get-together would be a little going away shindig for Beverly, Bill and Ben had hopped on board with mounting excitement. To his credit, Eddie had been a-Go mere seconds after Richie blurted out the idea of hosting. He could always count on him… except for when it came to planning, apparently. The little shit refused to bring the good snacks Mrs. K always hoarded, but Richie’s big eyed, big lipped pout seemed to hold some sway, for whatever reason, and he’d felt as if that solid_ no _had crumbled the moment he’d curled his hands over bony shoulders to give them a gentle shake._

_The most important piece—the date of this escapade—fell to Bill, however. Not that there was much room for deliberation, what with Beverly set to rev off in less than a handful of days, but Big Bill’s finality made things all the more real. For better or worse._

_“T-t-tomorrow, then,” he’d decided, so that had been that._

**& &&**

Richie’s been buzzing all day, waiting for noon to come and pass. The losers, Stan included, all agreed to show up around 2pm. It’s closing in on 1:30 and he can’t sit still.

He’s alone in the Tozier household and has been for hours now, his dad having left for work earlier than usual and his mom having fucked off not long after with only a single reminder to take the money she’d left on the counter to go buy whatever supplies he’d need for the upcoming school year. He doesn’t want to think about it now.

Richie’s body jolts when he hears the telltale sign of a tiny, firm fist banging against his front door. He knows by the sheer number of _bang bang bangs_ , all in quick succession, that it’s the one and only Eddie Kaspbrak. So Richie hops up from his bed and races downstairs, tossing the old science mag he’d been reading, swiped from the school library, to land over by the couch without a second glance.

“Oh, _Eddie Bear!_ You’re here!” Richie coos in a high-pitched, shriveled warble, the force of his yank on the door contrasting with the elderly schtick. He fumbles with his glasses to make up for the slip. “Come in, come in. Now give grandma a smooch!”

The kissing noises have Eddie trying not laugh, his expression shifting from a scowl to a grin and then back again within a handful of seconds. He pretends to gag for good measure and then hoists his backpack farther up his thin shoulders, shoving his way past Richie’s lanky body.

“I’d rather kiss my actual grandma, and I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”

Richie clears his throat before it can properly crack, dropping back into his normal, still too-loud tone.

“Yikes. Zombie grandma for the win, huh Eds? Whatever fucks your duck, I guess.”

“What the hell does that even _mean?_ And close the door, numbnuts, you’re letting in a draft! I still have actual allergies, y’know?”

“Sure, sure…” Blocking off the breeze by slamming the door, Richie catches up to Eddie’s strides to the stairs in no time, giving the overstuffed bag a little nudge as they make their way up. “You got your mom in this thing or what? How much shit do you need for one night, Kaspbrak?”

“Do you want the Delicious Deals or not?”

Richie gasps dramatically, but his grin is completely genuine.

“You stole your mom’s favorite? For _me?_ No way! What is this, Revenge of the _Nerd?_ ”

“I’m not a nerd! That’s more like Ben’s thing. Or Stan’s. Or _yours_.”

Those big, shifty browns seem to glimmer with mirth. Richie’s smarter than most would assume, would even have straight A’s if his behavior wasn’t so abysmal, but he’s no prodigy like Stan and no bookworm like Ben. Eddie always seems to think differently, though. His raised brow gets Richie chuckling.

“Right you are, _lover_ -boy.” Teasing him about the word on his cast never fails to make him blush, faintly, high on his cheekbones. “But could you go any slower? _Damn_ , Eddie. Ándale, Ándale!”

They cut right and head down the dark hallway, ignoring the creaking floorboards beneath the awkward slapping of their dingy sneakers. Eddie’s backpack slides down his arms, straps getting caught over his pointy elbows while Richie reaches around him to shove open the door to his bedroom. His chest bumps into the jutting lump of cloth and the crinkly contents inside crunch when Eddie stops in the middle of the doorway.

“Dude—”

“What the fuck is—do you _seriously_ live like this? It’s _so_ much worse than the last time I was here. How’s that even possible? Do you know what a broom is? Or a laundry basket?” he squawks far too quickly, somehow managing not to trip over his words as the toe of his shoe taps at a banana peel just a step away. He takes a bold move forward and wrinkles his nose when a dirty sock gets a little too close for comfort. “You’re honestly disgusting.”

“Is this _no_ t a perk of being a teenage boy? I know you’re a girl and all, but try to understand—”

“Ha-fucking-ha. You think Stan’s gonna set foot in this trash heap? I’ll need like three pairs of rubber gloves just to clear a path for us all!”

“Did you bring some with you?” Richie teases, teetering on his tiptoes to tower over Eddie’s taut form. “Are they in your second fanny pack?”

“Yeah, right next to my Trashmouth repellent, also known as _soap_.”

“Awe, Eds! C’mon! I’m clean, I swear, but I can’t say the same about your m— _ow_ , fuck.”

Richie spends more time poking at Eddie than he does cleaning, but the smaller boy isn’t much better. He answers every nudge with a shove, every crude joke with a snappy response, every chuckle with a delighted cackle. It takes them twenty minutes to pick trash and wrinkled clothing off the floor, leaving dust and stray crumbs in their wake, but at least the whole room looks that much larger. They don’t get any farther, however, because another much quieter knock echoes through the empty downstairs at 1:57.

Richie races Eddie to the door, snatching at the back of his best friend’s shirt when he ducks beneath the arm he flings out, tripping over his own feet on a step near the landing.

“Hey, I’m walkin’ here!” Richie shrieks in his best (worst) greasy New Yorker.

“Beep beep, Richie!” Eddie calls back, drawing the sounds out like he’s imitating a blaring car horn. He’s laughing as he does it, but the words freeze Richie in his spot, hand shooting out to grab at the bannister before he drops to his knees.

_Beep beep, Richie._

He’s back in that dusty old house, for a moment; trapped inside a room full of ugly clowns, a battered coffin, a decaying doll that looks startlingly like him. He’s searching for Eddie, trying to ignore the chill down his spine, screaming when It attacks—

That fucking clown. Gross. But Eddie’s only saying the phrase they’d coined years ago, and he’s not even using it seriously, the way his friends sometimes do. It’s got nothing to do with Pennywise or that crackhead house or fear.

He blinks and sees that he’s tucked safely away inside his own home, his glassy gaze clearing up just in time to spot Eddie and his dumb little shorts grabbing for the doorknob.

“Could you go any slower? _Damn,_ Richie,” Eddie mocks, snickering over his shoulder.

Richie slaps a smile onto his face and bounces over, saying cheerfully, “Hey, that was a good one, Eds,” just as Stan is revealed to be standing on the porch.

“What’s a good one?” he asks blandly, squinting at the two as if they’re as offensive to his eyes as the high-in-the-sky sun.

He’s still got those bandages wrapped around his head, matting thick curls and hindering excessive movement of his jaw, though he hadn’t talked much to begin with. The eye rolling and cheeky smirks said far more than Stan’s vocal chords ever did.

“Nothing,” Eddie answers with a wave of his hand. “I’m surprised your mom let you out of the house.”

“ _Yours_ did,” Stan points out. He stands as still and straight as a board without making any moves to enter.

“Yeah, but only because I have the last twelve years of my life to hold over her head.”

“True. It was my dad who didn’t want me coming over, but my mom was changing my bandages when he started complaining about it, so, you know, she sided with me instead. Not that I even _want_ to be here—”

“But you are,” Richie states, more at ease now that Stan’s stern solidity is present, grounding him like a sack of bricks. “And don’t worry, Stan. Our very own Doctor K here can take better care of you than your own Ma, I swear it! I bet he brought extra mummy wrap, just for you.”

“Hmm, I did, actually,” Eddie confirms, completely serious with his round eyes and pursed lips. He doesn’t even shove Richie off him when he drapes an arm over his shoulders to pull him into his side. If anything, it makes the corners of his lips twitch. “I can change it before we go to sleep, if you want.”

“Sure. Thanks, Eddie. How’s your arm?”

“His arm’s fine,” Richie answers just as Eddie begins to open his mouth. “See?” He grabs the cool fingers that barely stick out beneath the pristine cast and gives them a little squeeze. Eddie watches him with a look of constipation—or maybe of concentration, Richie can’t really tell. All he knows is that he’s suddenly warming a little too much under such rapt attention. He shakes it off. “Now come on. You’re letting in a draft!”

It’s a parrot of Eddie’s earlier words, but he smiles anyway, making his tan cheeks plump out in a way that looks oh-so pinchable. Maybe Richie really is turning into a grandma.

He drops Eddie’s hand and sidesteps to allow Stan to enter, which he does with haste before immediately starting to complain on the way to the staircase.

Richie’s banter is as easy as ever, almost as if they haven’t changed as much as he knows they have, since the moment they stepped out of those sewers for the last time. Richie bickers with Stanley and Eddie bickers with Richie, point to point to point, same as always. He just doesn’t know how they’ll fare once Bill arrives. But who is he kidding? Beverly’s coming, this whole thing’s for her, and that means Bill will be a mess over her rather than a mess over what he finally came to realize in the cistern

Richie knows he’d take Lovesick Bill over Heartsick Bill any day, but he can see the future better than any crystal ball on this matter so he knows their fearless leader will be blushing over Bev while she blushes over him, both of them ignoring whatever shitty movie they put on just as easily as they ignore a pathetically pining Ben, which will leave Stan to latch himself onto Mike, the least offensive and most mysterious of the group, which will _then_ leave Richie and Eddie down to entertaining themselves. It’s not all that bad of a thought, really. Not bad at all. He’d feel a little heartsick, too, if Eddie found anyone else to screech at. 

Because even _after_ that terrible moment at the arcade, followed by that terrible moment in the park, Richie doesn’t know how to be anything but himself inside his own head, and what he feels for Eddie has continued to bloom.

His chest aches at the thought.

“I’m not sleeping in here.”

They nearly plow into Stan’s back when he stops dead in the doorway, just as Eddie had earlier.

“What, it’s not up to your _standards?_ ” Richie scoffs. “We spent a lot of time spiffying the place up. A whole twenty minutes, Stanley!”

“Before your fish brain got distracted by something shiny?”

“Obviously,” Eddie replies before Richie gets a chance to. He’s a good sport about getting ganged up on, if he does say so himself. “But I mean, you should’ve seen it before we started damage control. I almost slipped on a fucking banana peel!”

“He did not! But if he had? Classic comedy gold.”

“Just shut up. And get me a rag.”

“Are you sure you aren’t already on one?”

Eddie snorts to cover up a laugh, making the punch he receives from Stanley entirely worth it. But Richie does as he’s told, like the good friend he is, and trudges back down to the kitchen in search of a towel. He finds some in a drawer beside the refrigerator, a stack of them hiding a box of Milk Duds that he grabs and shoves into the pocket of his shorts. He’ll share them with Eddie before the others arrive, if the little loser doesn’t decide to keep cleaning house with Stan instead.

“Here.” He tosses the raggedy cloths at Stanley’s hunched back when he returns to his room, blinking slowly at the glare that’s sent his way. “Make sure you get every nook and cranny. I want this place spotless, capiche? Bunk check at fifteen hundred hours!”

“What _is_ that? Seriously, what—are you supposed to be a drill sergeant or a mobster? You don’t even know, do you?”

“Hey, I can be both. Stop discriminating, asshole!”

“You’re such a freaking—”

“Both of you, get out!” Stan shouts suddenly, wringing a rag with one hand and trying to push back the curls trapped by his bandage with the other. “Go be idiots somewhere else for two seconds!”

“Fine. C’mon, Eds.” Richie reaches for his friend’s arm to drag him forward, which Eddie lets him do without a fuss. Before he shoves them both out into the hallway, he adds, “You better not touch my skin mags, Stanley! They’re organized by tit size, so—”

Truthfully, Richie’s more worried about Stan finding the loose-leaf pages of shirtless dudes he’d hidden inside a crack in the floorboards, far under his bed, but he tries not to think about that too much. There’s no way Stanley would touch anything hiding in that dark cavern of dust. 

“I hate you!” his stuffy friend exclaims as he slams the door in Richie’s face. Eddie shoves him as he spins around to stomp away.

**& &&**

_‘You got a smile so bright, you know you could’ve been a candle. I’m holding you so tight, you know you could’ve been a handle. The way you swept me off my feet, you know you could’ve been a broom. The way you smell so sweet, you know you could’ve been some perfume…’_

The couch cushions are scratchy, marking temporary creases into their elbows as they lean against it, and the wood floor is too hard under their bony asses but they don’t move. They remain as they are, sitting with their ears taking in the music from Richie’s dad’s record player, the one he isn’t supposed to touch under _any_ circumstances, quietly enjoying the upbeat tunes from the olden days—the _60s_. But he’d been banished from his own room before he could grab his boombox to bring down, so desperate times call for desperate measures.

Richie shares the Milk Duds he’d swiped, allowing his friend the privilege of holding the box so he doesn’t have to worry about Richie’s germs getting on all the candies. He makes Eddie toss them into his mouth as the trade-off. But with Eddie’s aim being shit (or was he purposefully aiming for the lenses of his glasses? He’d faired _damn_ well in their rock war, Richie remembers) and Richie’s depth perception being even shittier, only one out of every seven Duds makes it into his big mouth. Eddie hollers gleefully each time he sinks one in, so Richie yells with just as much gusto, goading him to do better and ignoring the breathless, half-hearted warnings about choking or spitting everywhere that Eddie manages to babble in between tosses.

They swap roles after the next song starts, merely halfway through the box and already plagued with aching bellies. It’s from the laughter, of course; Richie’s got plenty of room for whatever deliciously nasty snacks Eddie’s got tucked inside his giant-ass backpack.

It turns out that Eddie’s far better at catching the candies than Richie is, ducking and dodging like a little seal balancing a ball on his nose, probably because he won’t touch them once they land on the shaggy rug beneath their crossed legs. He doesn’t seem concerned about germs any longer, allowing Richie to throw them without complaint. It feels almost like some kind of honor, which is fucking stupid, but Eddie isn’t letting anyone _else_ touching his food before it enters his mouth so he deserves to preen a little.

And, of course, it helps that Richie _aims_ for Eddie’s opened mouth rather than the cute little button nose above it. They make a good team, even when they’re goofing.

It’s isn’t long before that song fades into yet another, and another again, and all the candy disappears just in time for another knock to come through. Richie crumples the empty carton and tosses it at Eddie’s head. He jumps to his feet to pull the needle off the record before sliding into the entryway just as Eddie begins to stand and brush his palms against his thighs.

Richie’s mouth gets stuck open in a shout that’s aborted midway when he sees not just Bill’s familiar smile but Ben’s as well, somehow even shyer than normal. He resists the urge to mutter _awwwkward_ beneath his breath, mostly because Eddie’s still over by the couch rather than at his side and wouldn’t be able to hear it. 

“Fucking _finally!_ ” he bemoans instead.

“We’re only ten minutes late,” Ben insists, though Richie thinks it’s probably more like fifteen.

“Yeah, and you’re always l-la-late anyways, Rich.”

“Not for the important stuff. And I never keep my dear Eddie waiting.”

Bill peeks past Richie when he hears a scoff, smiling warmly when he spies Eddie creeping closer.

“Sorry,” Ben adds, soft and unassuming.

“Nah, don’t be. Unless you brought more of your creepy little history projects with you—”

His fingers barely wrap around the strap of Ben’s pack before it’s yanked away from him. He’s always cagey about the things he carries around.

“I didn’t, don’t worry,” Ben mumbles quickly. He cradles his bag against his chest the way one would a security blanket. “Umm—Mike should be here soon. I talked to him this morning.”

“And B-B-B-Beverly, too,” Bill adds quietly, looking back and forth between Richie and Eddie while Ben stares down at his dirt-flecked shoes.

“Good, but can we get this party started now? You guys took your sweet ass time and I’m fucking starving.”

Eddie snatches up the bag he’d dropped by the coffee table when they’d first left Stan alone upstairs and tosses it into Richie’s arms.

“Help me put this stuff into bowls, then. I pretty much cleared out all the cupboards in my house and my mom’s gonna be really pissed, but tonight’ll be worth it.”

“Hell yeah, it will! It’s Loser’s Night!”

“Loser’s Night?” Ben questions, already eyeing Bill like the rest do when they’ve got a question.

But it’s Eddie that answers, just as enthusiastically as Richie had first declared.

“Fuck yeah, Loser’s Night!”

“It’s p-p-perfect.”

The room is filled with cheers that follow Bill’s laughter, his seal of approval setting the tone for the night ahead. It wouldn’t just be a nice farewell for Bev, but a show of solidarity that could surpass what they’d been through and turn it into something greater.

Four boys enter the kitchen, their howls turning to quiet chatter as they shuffle along. It’s a small space that’s cluttered with more than it should hold; dirty dishes piled up in the sink, three types of sugary cereal littering the countertops alongside bread crumbs and butter-covered knives, stacks of junk mail and old newspapers spread across a table meant for the family dinners they never have. The numerous bottles of whiskey and wine are the elephant in the room that they collectively decide to ignore, since Richie’s never gone out of his way to talk about it outright.

Bill hops up onto an empty spot on the counter, Ben opting to take a stool at the end. Richie shoves away coffee mugs to make space for all the chip bags and cookie packages he dumps onto the vacant smudgy surface. He’s a flurry of movement around Eddie’s stationary efficiency, opening the various junk foods the best he can as Richie grabs containers and the lap trays he uses to eat dinner inside his room practically every night.

Bill steals a chip from one of the bowls after it’s immediately filled, giving Ben the go ahead to grab a handful after seeing him eye it hungrily. Richie pokes at Eddie’s lips with one, reeling back with a squawk quickly when he tries to bite the prodding fingers alongside the circular treat. He licks the salt from his fingers, pinches Eddie’s puffy cheeks and gets a hard nudge from a cast to his stomach.

“Wha-What’re we doing tonight, Richie?”

“I could’ve brought some movies or something,” Ben mutters apologetically. “I… have lots of movies, but I don’t really know what you guys like yet.”

“That’s okay, Ben.” Bill meets the bigger boy’s gaze with a tentative smile. “Richie’s got enough for us. I brought T-Tw-Twister, so maybe we can do that, too.”

“Alright, Billy Boy!” Richie slaps him a high-five, stealing a chip from Eddie’s fingers just as he’s about to stick it in his mouth.

“Yeah, alright,” Eddie grits out, “except I can’t exactly do handstands like this, okay?”

“You could be the judge,” Ben suggests.

Richie snorts.

“Sure. Eddie’s a pro at judging us all by now. Just be prepared to declare me as the Ultimate Twister Champion!”

“Nuh-uh. _No_ way. If I’m the judge then I say you’re already disqualified.”

“What the fuck!”

Richie winces when Bill’s knuckles suddenly tap on his head to gain his attention. He squints up at their leader through thick lenses.

“Are your parents gonna be home? I told my m-ma-mom we wouldn’t be alone all night.”

“Uh, maybe? My dad said he would, unless he’s got another one of those conferences he thinks I don’t know is really code for ‘ _I gotta go fuck the receptionist, be back whenever_.’”

“Is he really doing that?” Eddie asks, quiet and concerned, and Richie wants to smile at his friend rather than kick the cabinets beneath Bill’s dangling legs. Ben stops mid-chew.

“I dunno. Who gives a shit? My mom’s probably fucking the mailman. Poor guy doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. _Literally!_ ”

“Yeah.” The chuckle Eddie emits is uneasy, but it pushes Ben and Bill back into acting a little more normal. “Right. Hey, help me take these upstairs? And don’t get all klutzy and spill it everywhere. Also, don’t touch the gummy bears, those are my favorite and—”

“Yeah, yeah, Eddie _Bear_. I won’t touch your precious gummies.”

Richie dutifully takes the tray Eddie had been fiddling with, hoisting the surprisingly heavy haul until he’s certain nothing is about to tip over. Eddie seems satisfied with this and rewards Richie by popping an oatmeal crème cookie between his teeth. He mumbles something that Eddie probably takes as a thank you instead of the intended demand for Bill to grab the next tray, but the steady sound of another fist at the door leaves him unnoticed.

“Sh-shouldn’t that be Stan?”

Eddie laughs.

“Stan got here, like, right after I did. He’s been cleaning Richie’s room this whole time, unless the stench killed him by now.”

“ _Mm-mm,_ ” is all Richie can say while he tries to swallow a large clump of oaty goodness.

“It could be Beverly—”

As soon as the name slips off Bill’s tongue Ben is off the stool and racing toward the door, wiping crumbs off his shirt that land all over the kitchen floor as he goes.

“ _Someone’s looking for some more spit to swap…_ ” Richie snickers into Eddie’s ear. The smaller boy elbows him and scrunches his nose. The way he chews his bottom lip is _very_ interesting.

“That’s disgusting,” he hisses less heatedly than Richie expects. “And none of your business, horndog.”

“Hey, if they’re gonna mack on each other in front of us—”

“So, where is everyone?”

The person at the door _was_ Beverly and her voice edges closer, inciting Bill to slide off the counter and draw up to his full height, readying himself to see her. Richie turns to get a good glimpse the second she enters with Ben hot on her trail like an excited puppy.

“Hey, Bev,” Eddie greets to break the sudden, strange tension. Richie twists his face into something funny, turning Bev's already bright grin a little bit sunnier.

“Hey, guys. Hey, Bill…” Her grassy greens linger on Bill’s face for several seconds before she looks back over to Richie and Eddie almost coyly. “Sorry I’m late. My aunt thought we needed a bunch of junk from the strip mall and then we had to pack it all up with the rest of my stuff. We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon, so this was kind of good timing.”

“My timing’s always impeccable, Miss Marsh. Just ask Eddie’s mom!”

“Oh my _god_ , that shit’s getting so old, Richie. Use your big brain and think of something that’s actually funny.”

“You think I have a big brain?”

“Well—I mean, you need something to fill that big head, so it could be a brain or, realistically, a pile of shit, but I’m your friend and I wanted to be nice. Unlike you.” Grabbing a measly one bowl to hold inside the crook of his good arm, Eddie backs up several paces, pausing in the kitchen’s arch. “I’m gonna go check on Stan before Mike shows up. You coming, Rich?”

Surprisingly, Richie takes Eddie’s oddly subtle hint to leave the three lovebirds alone. He wants to stick around and talk to Bev, joke and irritate and maybe bum a cigarette off her if she’s still got some, but he doesn’t. Bill’s wide-eyed staring is enough of a hint that he’d like a moment alone with the lady of the hour—or as alone as he can get with Ben lingering by her side, twitching so much that Richie’s convinced he’s got a loop of _Should I Stay of Should I Go_ blasting inside his indecisive brain.

But rather than play hero, Richie leaves them to fend for themselves, following Eddie back up the stairs until they disappear into the dark hallway. A faint tingle of happy music muffled from beyond the door to his room steals their attention.

_‘—I can laugh it in the face. Twist and shout my way out and wrap yourself around me ‘cause I ain’t the way you found me and and I’ll never be the same, oh yeah…’_

“Look at him. He’s still going at it,” Eddie huffs amusedly, jerking his chin towards Stan, who’s crouched on the ground with one of his many rags rubbing perfect circles into Richie’s floorboards.

“Aw, c’mon, Stanley! Enough’s enough. Come have some of these little Eddie bears.”

Eddie doesn’t refute this offer, though he does send Richie a pissy glare. He takes a handful of gummy candies for himself before Stan can even get to his feet and pops a couple into his mouth.

“Bill’s here. Ben and Bev, too.”

“Yeah, we’re just waiting on Mikey now…” Walking over to the dresser, Richie hits the stop button on his battered boombox after plopping the tray of food onto the newly cleared area. He knows this one hadn’t been in the deck, which means Stan had put it in… “Hey, you weren’t messing with my tape stash, were you?”

Richie fiddles with his glasses, chest clinching tight at the prospect of Stan coming across some of his cryptically labeled cassettes. Bill wouldn’t care enough to figure out what _For Eddie’s Mom_ really meant, but Stan was too smart and _just_ enough of an asshole to bring up his weird little collection to the whole group.

Both of the boys sense Richie’s sudden shift and react accordingly; Stan with narrowed eyes and Eddie with furrowed brows.

“Why?” they ask simultaneously.

“Just wondering. I’ve got some fucking awesome mixes, but I wouldn’t want your innocent little ears coming across Eddie’s mom screaming my name—”

He’s cut off when a little ball smacks him in the face, smearing cheesy residue across one of his lenses.

“You’re such a fucking dickweed! I’m gonna tape me strangling you as soon as I get this stupid cast off!”

“Oh yeah? Let’s see what you got, Kaspbrak! Gimme the ol’ one-two, Champ. Put up your deuce. C’mon, c’mon, start swingin’!”

He twists his voice into something old-timey, an approximation of his favorite Radio Announcer impersonation, and grabs Eddie’s hand, swinging his good arm back and forth to a beat of his own making. His shoulder gets a shove by a scarred palm and splayed fingers, the aggressive move completely undercut by Eddie’s bark of laughter.

Just like always, Stan rolls his eyes at the antics displayed before him: Richie hopping around with Eddie’s small hands clasped in his own, performing a Bugs Bunny-esque rendition of a boxer rather than a real one, with Eddie’s aggrieved glares slipping up in-between breathy laughs and breathless insults.

Richie doesn’t miss the extended look of suspicion thrown his way by Stan the moment Eddie breaks free and turns his back, wiping his hands on his shorts so he can grab a chip, but he chooses to pretend he doesn’t understand it.

Eddie didn’t care about music as much as Richie did, probably not even as much as Bev, but he liked it all the same, so what did it matter if Richie threw a few songs together for one of his best friends? He’d given them all tapes at one point, even Eddie, who’d liked the range Richie had gone for, but this one was… different. Full of sappy love songs that often wound up being more depressing than not.

So what if he was too chickenshit to give it to Eddie this time? In a summer chalk full of greywater, dead kids, and fake murderous clowns, he couldn’t really be blamed. 

Love could be the scariest thing, sometimes. Especially when you were on your own and _wrong._

“Hey,” Eddie says after a couple of crunches. “You know He-Man, right? Can you do Skeletor?”

“Why, you got a boner for him, Eds? Get it? _Boner!_ ‘Cause he’s a freaking Skeleton, he’s _all_ bone!”

“Yeah, I got that, Einstein. Real clever. Can you do it or not?”

“He can’t,” Stan insists.

Richie puffs out his chest, warmth zipping through him at Eddie’s request. He's usually telling Riche to can it, not actively encouraging him and his talents. Richie can’t screw this up.

Leaning closer to Stan, he raps his knuckles against his bandaged noggin, slapping at the hand that reaches out to stop him.

“Just as I suspected!” he screeches over the top of Stan’s complaints. “Hollow, you metal-munching moron!”

“Oh my god, that’s so fucking awful!” Eddie cackles. There’s something soft in his eyes when they meet Richie’s, making it hard to turn his grin into even a feigned scowl.

“You furry, flea-bitten fool! I’ll cover my throne with your hide!”

“Do Lion-O!”

“Why? He just sounds like a random dude, you weirdo.” Richie rolls his eyes, preening a little under Eddie’s attention, but he clears his throat and puts on a voice that mostly sounds like his own, just deeper and more pronounced, while cupping his hands around his glasses. “The danger signal! Sword of Omen, give me sight beyond sight!”

Eddie continues to cackle, either because it’s so bad that it’s actually good or because he’s pleased by Richie complying with his requests.

“Are you done now?” Stan, the killjoy, demands. “You said Mike’s not here yet, so don’t tell me you left Beverly alone with Bill and Ben.”

“Uh, yeah? So? They’re all big girls, mom. Chill out.”

“You guys _do_ know that Bill kissed Beverly too, right? And I don't just mean back in third grade.”

“ _What?_ ” Richie nearly chokes as he spits the word, and several chunks of cookie he’d just shoved into his mouth, all over the place. Eddie gags when a crumb hits him.

“Are you—you’re _serious?_ ” Eddie’s eyes somehow seem impossibly bigger. And even browner, like velvet or melted chocolate. “When? How do you even know that?”

“Bill told me,” Stan states simply, shrugging as if it were no big deal.

Offended, Richie readjusts his glasses.

“Why’d he tell _you?_ ”

“Because he wanted a second opinion and I actually listen to what he says. No offence, Eddie. And it was probably a day after we all left the circle.”

“Oh, shit! Is everyone getting a crack at Bev or what?”

“Beep beep, asshole! _Gross!_ I-I don’t wanna kiss Beverly, I mean—do you even know how many germs are transmitted, how much _bacteria_ —”

“Like she’d kiss _you_ , Eddie,” Richie snorts, trying not to think of that specific image. His stomach churns. “I’m totally next in line. Or Mike, I guess. I’ll concede that. But I definitely beat you two fucking chumps.”

“And you really think she’d kiss _your_ trashmouth?” Stan retorts snippily. He’s too busy screwing his mouth up at Richie to notice the way Eddie crosses his arms over his middle, looking down at his sneakers like they suddenly hold all the answers to the universe, but Richie sees. Eddie’s frowning and so Richie frowns, too. Stan keeps going. “She’d probably get herpes.”

“Only ‘cause I got it from Mrs. K!”

The jab does nothing to pull Eddie out of his haze. Richie’s nudge gets better results, but only after several long seconds.

“That’s so… whatever. Look, I’m gonna—I’m gonna go see what’s up. Bill probably knows what we should do first.”

Well, _Richie_ knows what they should do. This is _his_ house, he’s more than capable of guiding his friends on a journey through their little Loser’s Night, or at least co-conspiring with Bill on the matter. But for once he holds his tongue, allowing Eddie to slip out into the hallway without another word. The stone in his stomach lets him know just how much he hates watching him go.

Stan stares after Eddie with a peculiar expression, one that's indecipherable. Richie doesn’t like not knowing what’s going on with his friends, despite the fact that he never wants them to know what’s going on with him. In fact, it really fucking sucks, just like all those days they’d been apart, when Bill had gone fucking bonkers trying to get them all killed and Beverly followed him way too far down that rabbit hole and their group splintered down to none. Because he didn’t want to see Bill and he wasn’t allowed to see Eddie—thanks, psycho bitch Mrs. K!—and Stan had become his only companion for several hours every other day. He didn’t know Ben or Mike well enough to seek them out personally, though he caught glimpses of Poet Boy dragging his feet in and out of the library or Mike carrying armfuls of meat with the most pathetic expression Richie could imagine.

He’d missed Eddie the most, _so_ fucking much, during that time. ( _Don’t think about the arcade, Richie, or the park or the bridge or_ —)Even more than he missed the kid Bill used to be. And so now, seeing Eddie look so down and Stan look so thoughtful… it just didn’t sit right in the pit of his gut. Maybe Eddie was more sensitive now, after the sewers and the clown and finding out he didn’t need to take a hundred pills a day just to be normal. Or maybe it was something else.

Could Eddie really want Beverly to kiss him, too? He’d gone on and on about germs, but she's still a _girl_. And boys are supposed to like girls. _Eddie_ is supposed to like girls, but Richie can’t, no matter how hard he tries to forget about Eddie’s soft, efficient hands and shiny, perfectly combed hair—

_Fuck._

“What? Did you finally swallow some of that trash you always spit up?”

Richie doesn’t know his expression has twisted into something ugly until Stan’s teasing words help smooth the tense lines away. He shows his infamous middle finger and starts bitching at Stan about helping him gather some blankets to spread across the floor.

He won’t think about how much he does _not_ want Eddie kissing Beverly. Or anyone else, for that matter.

**& &&**

“ _No_ , Richie.”

That’s what every one of his movie suggestions was met with. To be fair, they _were_ all horror films; _A Nightmare on Elm Street, The Thing, The Evil Dead, An American Werewolf in London_. Bill voted yes for _Gremlins_ , but no one else seemed too interested. They’d ended up settling on _Flash Gordon_ (he’s for every one of us, stand for every one of us, he saves with a mighty hand, every man, every woman, every child, with a mighty flash!) _,_ with a promise that _The Breakfast Club_ would follow.

Richie had tried—and unfortunately failed—to bump one of Eddie’s favorites onto the shortlist.

_“C’mon, guys! You’d really deny our very own Marty McSmallFry his one and only pleasure?”_

_“Oh, ha-ha, Doc ShitForBrains. Do you really wanna keep it up when I’m gonna be sleeping right next to you all night?”_

He really fucking hoped the hitch in his breath had gone unnoticed.

_“Your threats of murder are so romantic—”_

But alas, Stan had been a persistent pain in the ass with his criteria. No time travel, no monsters, no creepy ladies or ugly clowns or mind-bending mysteries he couldn’t explain away in three paragraphs or less. Richie didn't want to admit his relief.

So they all sit crowded around the expanse of Richie’s bed, jostling each other each time they move in their attempts to get a better look over someone’s shoulder or around someone’s head, peering at the small screen with rapt attention. Too many hands dig into bowl after bowl, skim over plate after plate, reach for swig after swig of cola or juice or water.

Beverly tugs at the back of Richie’s shirt when he gets too riled up, laughing as she tries to shove him out of her way, knocking him into Stan who knocks him right back into place. Eddie, whose spirits seem to have lifted the moment Richie beckoned him over to the spot on his left, nearest the window so he can breathe something other than stale air, shoves his prized gummy bears quietly into Richie’s sweaty hands. _Only_ Richie’s hands. It feels like a secret. He smiles awkwardly, mouth completely full, as a silent thank you.

An hour and forty minutes passes and, with it, the movie, prompting Stan to hop up and pop the next video into the VCR. Richie makes it only a quarter of the way through before he’s itching to mock the characters, his jokes earning him bits of pretzel twists landing into his mess of dark hair, courtesy of Bill. But their leader doesn’t seem to mind when Ben asks question after question, his shyness ebbing away alongside the time.

They settle into the teen angst playing out on the screen after Eddie’s sour expression convinces Richie to simmer down. Beverly seems enraptured by her movie-star twin, or maybe it’s just the dude in the denim jacket that has her looking away from Bill for longer than five minutes. Similarly, Stan seems oddly invested in the flick, his posture relaxing ever so slightly whenever something he deems interesting happens. The others have no problem focusing on the screen, but it isn’t long before Richie becomes bored.

His gaze lands onto the side of Eddie’s face, tracing over a mixture of soft and sharp; round cheeks, upturned nose, thick lashes. Cute. Not pretty like a girl, like Beverly, but just… _cute_. Always.

There’s a flash of that disgusting house, of It showing him Eddie disappearing into that creepy clown room, showing him Eddie’s head popping out of a mattress; of the real Eddie screaming and gasping and cradling his arm while It prepares to devour him. There’s a flash of running, grabbing his best friend’s face while Beverly grabs at his shirt, their yells mingling as the clown advances, but all Richie wants is for Eddie to look at him, _only_ him, and—

Eddie reacts to the prolonged staring by turning his head slowly, side-eying Richie before facing him fully, an unspoken question playing in those shining eyes. If he’s not careful Eddie will read him like a book, probably pull him out into the hall so he can poke and prod and worry, most likely with a shitty attitude because that’s what Richie responds to best. They know each other too well and, sometimes, not well enough.

If talking is his gift, then making a fool of himself is a close second.

Richie revels in the way Eddie can’t stop his lips from turning up at the goofy expressions he contorts his face into, his magnified eyes going cross and his cracked lips sucking in like a fish. Eddie tries to make himself seem at least a little exasperated by the distraction, but they both know it’s just for show and Eddie proves as much when he crosses his own eyes and sticks his tongue out in turn, freckled nose scrunching in delight instead of the default of disgust. Richie’s tempted to shove a gummy bear up his nose just to see what kind of new reaction he can get, when a faint noise suddenly catches his interest.

Scratching? No, footsteps. Or… what? What is that? Nothing to be scared of, certainly. Nothing to get his back to go as rigid as Stan’s or his heart to leap as suddenly as Eddie’s anytime he thinks he can’t breathe.

“Did you guys hear that?” Eddie demands, voice filled with surprisingly less caution than what had crept up within Richie. And of course it’s him who asks, who’d been watching as closely as he was being watched. His bony knee hits Richie’s thigh when he twists in his spot.

“Oh. Yeah,” Beverly murmurs without concern, a thumb swiping over the key still hanging around her neck, eyes never leaving the screen. “It’s probably Mike.”

And just like that, Richie deflates. He feels like a fucking idiot, freezing up in his own home over sounds he’s heard a handful of times in a span of a few hours. He doesn’t need to think about what happened, wishes he could forget everything but the lingering remnants—like Bev and how she’d seen them, all grown up, within the Deadlights, unable to tell them why or how, only that they’d been _scared_ and _older_. He wouldn’t want to forget spending the summer with his friends, though. Just all the rest of the sordid details.

“Shouldn’t someone… get that?”

They all turn to look at Ben, except for Stanley who only gives him a cursory glance.

“I-I’ll go,” Bill offers after a bout of silence.

But Ben, being closest to the door, shakes his head and stands.

“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“We’ll save you the jellybeans,” Beverly promises, and she _is_ looking away from the screen this time, her mouth curved coyly as Ben flushes. Richie didn’t even know they _had_ jellybeans.

He waits for Ben to exit the room before he says, “You guys think I could eat that whole bag before he gets back?”

Beverly’s glare is a very effective deterrent.

The movie gives them a dance sequence that’s interesting enough to stop Richie from trying to sneak past Bev’s side-eye, so he watches, then on, as raptly as the rest of the group without much complaint. He nudges Eddie every time he wants his cup from its spot atop the windowsill, doing it perhaps a little too frequently, but if Eddie knows he’s being purposefully poked at he does a valiant job of not showing it. And if expertly trimmed nails dig into the back of Richie’s hand on every pass? Well, Richie pretends not to read into it, just like he pretends not to notice when those biting drags turn to gentle thumb swipes that leave him with the same sort of rush that jumping off the cliff does. He fiddles with his glasses for something to do and puts on a show of being more eager than he really is when Ben leads Mike into the room.

“Hey, Homeschool!” he all but shouts, sloshing his drink over the side of his cup and onto Eddie’s bare knee.

“ _Ugh_ ,” his friend grumbles, not even trying to hide the fact that he grabs the edge of Richie’s blanket to wipe away the mess. 

His socked foot kicks Richie in the gut and Richie exhibits surprising self-control by _not_ thinking about the way Eddie’s weight felt on him when they’d been sprawled out on the hammock together with that same foot shoved in his face.

“Sorry, guys. My grandfather decided there were some last-minute chores I needed to take care of. I told him one of my friends was moving and this was the last time we’d get to hang out, but he said “Son, you don’t got any friends,” and then made me clean up a pile of shit.”

“You’re here now. You didn’t m-m-miss anything. Promise.”

“Yeah, you didn’t miss anything except for the greatest movie of all time!”

The only acknowledgement Richie and his love for _Flash Gordon_ gets is a pat on the back from Beverly. She smiles at Mike too, grateful for his presence, for all of them.

“Thanks for coming.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Mike drops his bag, which is nothing more than what looks like an old striped pillowcase, to the floor in front of his feet, then bends to untie it. “I’ve never really done anything like this, y’know? So I wasn’t sure if I should bring anything. And you guys probably have enough games, but I found this in the closet…”

“ _Turtle?_ ” Eddie asks with soft intrigue.

Richie blinks and grabs for the box as Stan questions, “What kind of game is that?”

“S-So-Something to do with m-magnets,” Bill murmurs, reading the banner at the bottom of the faded square box from over Richie’s shoulder.

“And racing,” Ben adds.

Richie shakes it for good measure and is dissatisfied with how little noise the contents makes. Still, it reminds him of the turtle that had grazed his foot when they’d been splashing around in the quarry, how instantly his childish panic had morphed into a sense of calm when Big Bill let them know exactly what it was. He wants to go swimming again; that’s what they should have done on Beverly’s last day, commemorate it with a roaring splash of good times and chilly water.

“And,” Mike says quickly, interrupting the reverie they’d all fallen into, “if you guys aren’t into that, my grandfather gave me a couple extra dollars. I was thinking maybe we could grab some milkshakes before it gets too late, my treat.”

“Oh, hell yes!”

“But I don’t have enough for all of us. We’ll have to share.”

Mike looks at Eddie with an apologetic grimace, but the smaller boy only smiles kindly. It’s a rare sight coming from Eddie, bright and relaxed, and Richie _has_ to stare at it just a little bit longer.

“At this point drinking after someone is the least of my problems. But if I get mono, Richie, I _swear—_ ”

“Who said you had to share with me, huh?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, his cheeks turning splotchy with a stroke of color. Richie grins at the reaction. Even with the slight breeze coming through the window, his body feels all too warm.

“Fine! I just thought—I mean, I guess I could share with—”

“Oh, no you don’t. It’s too late, Eds! We’ve shared blood! Next comes backwash and then—"

“Do _not_ fucking finish that sentence, you freak!”

Beverly interrupts their squabbling by pushing at their backs with the heels of her feet. The movie plays on in the background, forgotten due to Mike’s presence and the promise of an exciting trek out for some delicious, even more sugary goodness.

“Should we go now or d-d-do we save it for after a game?”

“I’m up for Twister,” Beverly declares with gleaming eyes.

“Yeah,” Ben agrees, “But I don’t think we should do anything like that on a full stomach? One time I stopped after school for some ice cream and I had to run home ‘cause of Henry and, um, the two didn’t mix very well.”

“Well, with Bowers and his gang out of the way, and Pen—” Eddie stops himself, backtracks on the thing he doesn’t want to bring up even though the simple pause says more than enough. “I don’t think there’s anyone else we need to run from.”

The words drape an unexpectedly somber blanket over their previously cheerful vibe, smothering their conversation into a lull. Richie blinks, trying to think of a way to break the silence.

Eddie doesn’t need his help with that.

“And anyway, if we’re going out to get anything then it better be sooner rather than later. I don’t want a gut full of sugar and dairy when it’s time to go to sleep.”

“When the fuck’s your bedtime?” Richie cackles, twisting around to get a good look at the alarm clock resting precariously at the edge of his nightstand. “It’s not even 6 yet!”

“I know, idiot,” Eddie snips back. “I said _when it’s time—_ ”

“That’s just a myth, dude. I eat junk and conk out pretty much every night. Nothing ever happens.”

“Yeah, because you’re probably one of the unhealthiest people on the planet, Richie! You shouldn’t eat anything, like, _four hours_ before you go to sleep, otherwise it messes shit up, like your metabolism and your temperature and your brain waves and—and it can cause fucking _nightmares_ —"

The fact that he shuts his mouth tight, teeth clinking like the lid of Beverly’s zippo, means Eddie has revealed more than he would’ve liked. Richie’s lips part as he stares dumbly at the boy sitting hunched over beside him, who does his best not to meet anyone’s eye.

“You’re—you’re having n-n-n-nightmares, Eddie?”

“Sure. Sometimes. Everyone has nightmares.”

“But not about—”

“No,” Eddie replies before Stan can finish his question. “No, not… not that. Or maybe? I don’t—I never remember, alright? I just know how it feels and I’m—”

 _I can only remember parts_. That’s what Beverly had said, hadn’t she? And now Eddie can’t remember his nightmares? But that’s not too odd, Richie supposes. People don’t remember their dreams often, they aren’t supposed to, so whatever’s plaguing Eddie… If it’s not about It, then what could it be?

It shouldn’t really matter. Richie can’t slip inside Eddie’s head and beat up his nightmares with a baseball bat, though he would if he could. Eddie doesn’t need to explain anything. Richie doubts _he’d_ be able to, if he were in his shoes. His own nightmares are vague and messy and uncomfortable to relive.

“I’m just saying,” Eddie continues slowly, nails idly scratching at the blood red V that’s still vivid over the dimming black S below, “It’s a recipe for disaster all around.”

“We won’t wait that long,” Beverly promises, voice steady and earnest. There’s something deeper in her eyes that, even with her gaze firmly on Eddie, Richie can recognize clearly.

Bill shuffling closer to put a hand on Eddie’s back breaks the spell. 

“One game of Twister and then we’ll head out, if th-th-that’s okay with Mike.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Very carefully he slides his sack over beside Richie’s dresser, next to Stan’s bag. “And hey, I know this sounds weird and it’s not like I don’t know how, but I’ve never actually played before…”

“You’re not alone on that,” Bev admits. “I haven’t either.”

“Really?” Ben looks a little flustered at just the mention of getting all twisty with Beverly. “I’ve played, but only with my mom and aunt and cousin.”

“Wow, what a bunch of losers,” Richie snickers. He’s bouncing at the thought of winning with three extra players.

“We _are_ the L-Lo-Loser’s Club.”

Stan’s mouth twitches, although his expression quickly sours when his body sways against the too-hard clap Richie smacks his back with.

“Well, _duh._ But tonight the Winners Club shall be born! And I, as its future one and _only_ member—”

“You’re a little premature there, jackass. And besides, I thought I already disqualified you.”

“I’m never premature with your mother!”

Bill’s learned by now exactly how long Richie and Eddie can argue once they really get going, he’s had years to get used to it, but it’s Beverly’s last night in Derry and it’s a given that he feels inclined to not let their bickering interrupt their plans.

Richie’s too focused on listening to Eddie’s babbling to notice Bill slinking away to grab the box from inside his bag, but when Beverly vaults off the bed, and Stan pushes at their shoulders to make a path between them, he realizes the game is about to begin.

The floor’s clear enough—and probably spit-shined, knowing Stanley—for the sheet of colorful circles to lay comfortably in the center, surrounded on all sides by the Losers crowding around it. Eddie sticks near the bed and clutches the little spinner to his chest after Bill hands it to him.

Stan explains the rules as quickly as he can, which isn’t quickly enough with Richie chiming in every other word. Beverly probably doesn’t mean to encourage him with prolonged eye-contact but that’s exactly what she does, so what else is Richie supposed to do if _not_ mock Stanley behind his back, wrangling smothered laughter from his friends in the process?

Their grumpy little judge makes himself comfortable atop Richie’s rumpled comforter, ready for the first spin. He stops when Beverly calls out for him to wait long enough for her to switch the TV off, exchanging mumbling voices for the funky beats of Whitney Houston on the boombox. Eddie looks as if he wants to protest when Beverly cranks the volume down low enough to be able to hear the moves as they get called, but he decides to hold his tongue when he sees Richie smirking at him, not too keen on letting the others know just how much a fan he is of this song.

_‘Clock strikes upon the hour and the sun begins to fade. Still enough time to figure out how to chase my blues away. I’ve done alright up to now, it’s the light of day that shows me how. And when the night falls, loneliness calls. Oh, I wanna dance with somebody. I wanna feel the heat with somebody…’_

Right foot red. Left hand blue. They’re a tangle of limbs on each turn; short, gangly, skinny, thick, firm. Ben’s the first to fall, though Eddie allows him to stand and re-position himself without counting it as a loss since he seems so embarrassed. He’s more stable on his second attempt, spurred on by Richie and Mike’s strained cheering. He nearly outlasts their oldest member when his sock slips onto the wooden floor, but it’s when Richie starts crooning over the next song, an old hit he’d put on this specific mix a long time ago, that Ben loses for good.

“Sugar pie, honey bunch, oh _Bevvy,_ I love you! I can’t help myself, I love you and nobody else! In and out of my life, you come and you go, leaving just your picture behind, and I kissed it a thousand times—”

“He’s cheating!” Stan shouts at Eddie once he figures out that Richie had been targeting Ben specifically.

“No ch-cheating, Richie. Play fair.”

“Yeah, Richie, let’s all play fair,” Beverly a=says with a sly grin. “And you got the words wrong, you know? I think you meant ‘sugar pie, honey bunch, oh _Eddie_ , I love you—'”

“Okay!” Eddie shouts, thankfully calling everyone’s attention away from the stricken expression Richie knows his face has taken on. 

It’s just a joke, a harmless joke, one he definitely deserves to be the brunt of after the stunt he just pulled. It’s not like she _knows_ anything, so it’s—it’s _fine._ He can breathe easy.

Eddie’s staring up at the ceiling like God himself might come down and help him with his idiot friends. “Everyone needs to shut the fuck up, alright, or I’m kicking all of you out! Except for Ben and Mike and maybe Stan.”

“I was just singing!” His voice cracks the higher it goes but Richie doesn’t care. “This isn’t fucking _Footloose,_ okay? I’m allowed to sing in my own house!”

“ _Footloose_ was about dancing,” Stan corrects.

“Whatever!”

Richie and Mike step to the side with Ben officially out. The next one to go is their very own fearless leader, with all his awkward angles, thanks to how much time he spends watching Beverly bend over instead of looking at where he needs to put his hands.

Bill wobbles dangerously when Stan’s knee brushes his side, a spot of ticklishness they’d learned from years of nights just like these. Stanley doesn’t exploit that weakness, necessarily, but he _does_ mention it in an off-handed remark to Beverly. And Beverly wastes no time allowing her elbow to _accidentally_ start grazing Bill’s ribs as they become exposed with the judge’s order of a new position. Eddie calls out “sorry, Bill!” far too gleefully the exact moment he falls on his ass. He gets the last laugh, though, when he makes sure to take Stan down with him.

The next song turns into two more, which then turns into the end of the tape, where Eddie decides to shut off the static rather than pop in a new set of songs. It’s then, with Richie facing off against the other finalists, that he starts to realize how physically strong both Mike and Bev are and how unprepared he’d been to last this long. Playing with Bill, Stan, and Eddie for the majority of his life had tricked him into thinking he’d been the best. And he was, of course, but not against these two.

He drops in the end because—and _only_ because—Beverly promises him her cigarettes in exchange for a forfeit. He bolsters at first, claims he can steal his own pack, that he doesn’t need her pitiful leftovers, but then he twists his wrist and his glasses fall off his face and he can’t do much more than lean on a knee with a grunt pain.

“What? What is it? What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?” Eddie questions wildly, tossing the spinner and dropping to his own bared knees to see the newest way Richie managed to screw up. The way he grabs Richie’s arm, with such delicacy and care, such _warmth_ —

“Just my pride, Eds,” he mumbles with a sniffle, shaking out the twinges in his wrist and trying to ignore the way his entire body shivers.

Eddie’s sneer doesn’t mask the relief that replaces his momentary concern, but it’s strong enough to make sure Richie understands his disdain.

“I doubt you had any left,” Stan quips from his spot on the floor beside Bill. The rest of the Losers can only agree.

The point is, Richie only loses for the cigarettes. And maybe so he can sit at Eddie’s side and take turns flicking the spinner until Mike and Beverly finish battling it out. It may be a tie between them, in the end, but Richie is still the Twister Champion in his own heart.

Mike and Bev shake hands and grin at everyone like smug little assholes. Richie’s grinning, too, despite himself, and so is Eddie and everyone else. They watch each other with a mix of sadness for what’s to come and happiness for what they already have.

“Can we go get milkshakes now?” Stan asks, hopeful and newly energized, and every single one of them readily agrees.

**& &&**

Richie’s pretty sure they’re two minutes away from getting kicked out. Mostly due to him and Eddie. Neither gives a shit.

They try to keep their voices down but Richie’s having such a good time that it’s impossible to shut up, no matter how many _beep beeps_ Bill, Stan, and Bev send his way. Eddie isn’t any better, though. He always starts his sentences quietly, but then whenever Richie butts in it spins the knob controlling the volume of Eddie’s vocal chords and he ends up shouting into Richie’s ear in the end.

Stan complains because they’re _so fucking dumb_ and _could you stop embarrassing us for five minutes._ Bev gives mixed signals by taking Stanley’s side one second, then going against him the next to make snide comments designed purely to egg Richie and Eddie on.

It’s utter chaos. Not the _crackhead-killer-clown_ kind, just the _lucky-number-seven_ kind. Richie’s favorite.

They _do_ have to share their milkshakes, like Mike warned. He gets his own since it’s his money and all, while Stan—looking like he might have an aneurysm—asks Bill, discreetly as possible, which means not discreetly at all when there are seven bodies crammed into one booth, if they can split.

Richie knows Bill would like to get in nice and close with Bev, but Stan is like Eddie in many ways and he trusts Bill’s backwash more than anyone else’s, probably because he knows Bill won’t to purposefully drool into the cup just for a couple of chucks. Bill looks a little crestfallen at first, but his “ _yeah, no p-p-problem_ ” gets a genuine smile out of Stan the Man, and that eases Bill out of his disappointment fairly easily.

Bev winds up sharing with Ben, which she seems to genuinely not mind, since Eddie had already called dibs on Richie back at the house, and that makes Richie smile like a fucking wacko.

He’s caught between Eddie and Stan, with the smaller boy nearly half on his lap and still pressed against the window to allow Bill’s skinny ass enough room to squeeze in on Stan’s other side. His thigh keeps twitching under Eddie’s weight and he, in turn, keeps shoving his pointy elbows into Richie’s chest, but he smells like lavender and detergent and sweat from the summer heat and Richie actively tries to inhale only a normal amount while his nose is so close to Eddie’s hair.

No one looks at him funny and Eddie doesn’t turn around to tell him to stop being a creep, so he thinks he’s successful.

Richie is enjoying the creamy frothiness of the strawberry shake Eddie had insisted on. He’d made a show of it at first, whining about how chocolate was better and Eddie was being an unfair bitch by making him drink something as girly as strawberry, but it was good and he couldn’t deny that, and Eddie’s satisfied grin told him he knew he’d won. Ben and Bev have chocolate, though, as does Mike, and Richie keeps pretending to make a grab for their glasses and then pouting when Eddie slaps his hand away. Bill and Stan had gone for vanilla, predictably. Richie only likes that flavor in the form of a cone.

“Hey, Stan, how’s it feel being the second person in this group to kiss Buh-Buh-Buh-Bill?”

The curly-haired boy stares flatly at Richie.

“What’re you talking about?”

“You’re swapping spit! Swallowing backwash! You’ve basically been making out for last ten minutes.”

Richie cringes at himself once his brain catches up with his tongue. His mouth is going to get him in the worst trouble of his life if he doesn’t work on being more careful. Jokes about boys kissing other boys, even among friends, should be a big _NO_.

“We have different straws, Richie. It’s not the s-s-same.”

Bill glances at Bev with zero subtlety.

“Yeah, what the fuck, Rich?” Eddie scoffs. “You already tried that joke earlier and guess what? It’s even less funny now, fucknut.”

“Besides,” Stanley adds, as cool as ever, and there’s something significant twinkling in his eyes that unsettles Richie deeply, “you’re sharing with Eddie, so that means you’ve been kissing _him_ for the last ten minutes, by your own logic.”

He flushes at the implication, at the image it conjures in his mind. Kissing Eddie… _oh man_ , his traitorous brain has thought about _that_ before. Most recently when he’d ridden out to the Kissing Bridge, known for sucking face and carving names, and had done the latter while thinking of the former.

The Losers are staring at them—at Richie, mostly—and his flush of embarrassment turns to one of panic. He forces himself to laugh it off, the hand that’s been brushing against Eddie’s hip balling into a fist.

“Dude, I’ve been making out with Mrs. K for years! It’s basically the same thing.”

“Fuck off, Richie. You’re such an asshole,” Eddie snaps. It’s just like usual except there’s an undertone that’s _off_ and Richie doesn’t quite know why.

“Aw, Eds, come on. Don’t get all pissy just ‘cause your mom got to me first.”

“You’re so gross. Literally. Like, I think you seriously need some medical help because you’re super weird and you always—”

“That’s where you come in, Doctor K!”

Eddie twists around, quick as a whip, and opens his mouth to start shouting words Richie can’t even really understand. It’s the same routine they jump into constantly, which makes the Losers smile and roll their eyes and trail off into separate conversations about MTV and how often Beverly should call and what classes they all think they might like this coming year.

Richie doesn’t care about any of it. He’s got his hand on Eddie’s side, making sure he doesn’t bang his head against the glass window with how much he’s wiggling around, and he’s shouting nonsense into Eddie’s face as good as he’s getting it.

He thinks about kissing Eddie. _Really_ thinks about it. Like… just leaning over for a quick little peck to see how it feels, to catalogue all the twitches in his expression that might follow. Richie burns with the desire to find out what sort of response he would truly get, even though he knows it probably wouldn’t be a good one.

( _Why are you being so weird? I’m not your fucking boyfriend._ )

He adjusts his glasses and swallows thickly

“—I’m gonna tape your fucking mouth shut, okay?! _And_ your nose, and then you won’t be able talk or breathe and I’ll finally know what peace is like for one second in my _entire_ life—”

“Eddie! What kind of operation are you running here, my good sir? I’ll sue your short ass for malpractice!”

“I’ll show _you_ malpractice!”

Eddie shifts in his seat, leaning farther and farther into Richie’s lap, and one hand goes down to Richie’s thigh to hold himself up—

“ _Ah!_ ” he squeals, choked off at the end so as not to draw any undue attention. Stan hears, though, and side-eyes them for a whole two seconds before turning back to his conversation with Mike.

“ _Oh, shit,_ ” Eddie whispers. Richie can definitely hear laughter bubbling up in his voice. Asshole.

“What the fuck’re you touching my junk for, dude!” He sounds more pained than panicked because getting hit in the dick by Eddie’s tiny, furious fist had actually _hurt_.

“I didn’t mean to, asswipe! Sorry. I mean, you deserved it, but _sorry._ ”

“Hmph.”

He rubs a hand over his crotch like that might somehow make it better, glaring at Eddie when he turns his nose up in disgust, eyes darting over momentarily to gauge his reaction.

“Sorry,” he says again.

Richie’s reply stalls in his throat when Eddie leans forward to place his mouth against Richie’s forehead. It’s a kiss, sort of, gone as quick as it came, and he’d puckered up like he does when his mom insists she give him a smooch before leaving the house, but it’s not really the same either. His freckled nose looks suspiciously pink, for one thing. And Richie feels like his skin is burning from the inside out.

“What, uh, what was that for?” he dazedly asks, blinking owlishly at the boy who remains frozen on his thigh.

Eddie rolls his eyes.

“To make it better, obviously.”

“What kind of doctor do you go to, Eds?” he laughs. “And anyway, you punched my dick, not my face.”

“Your face _is_ a dick!”

“So that must mean you like kissing dicks, then.”

And there it is again. Raging hormones chugging full steam ahead! Maybe this kind of innuendo needs to stop altogether, in light of recent revelations and events. Or maybe he could just _try_ a little more to reel it in.

“Your name is Richard!” Eddie squawks, unaware of Richie’s internal dilemma. “That’s what I meant! Like Dick? You know, the nickname!”

“Yes, Einstein, I got the joke. Thank you.”

“Don’t _Einstein_ me, Einstein! You’re such a—”

“Dick? Why, thank you, my dear Edward!”

“You are _so_ not funny—”

“So you say, but you’re always laughing when I’m around! Cause and effect, Professor.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m laughing at how fucking dumb you are, shitnugget! Like, how oblivious can you honestly be? Just looking at your dopey face—”

“Makes you go all weak in the knees? Oh, Eddie Bear, I’m swooning!”

He’s making kissy noises and Eddie’s face turns red, _so_ red, redder than it would be just from laughter, but the fine line of his mouth is curled up at the corners and he’s got both hands in the air, straight and tight, like he’s ready to slice down into Richie’s neck to shut him up once and for all, but then he coughs and those hands drop instead to rifle through his fannypack.

The inhaler comes out. It’s such a regular occurrence that their friends only give Eddie a cursory glance, to make sure it’s nothing serious, but Richie’s eyebrows furrow anyways. Eddie looks miserable in that moment, puffing on his inhaler desperately a few times, then shoving it back where it belongs hastily like using it makes him feel guilty.

He’d thrown all that fake shit away before they’d gone into that house on Neibolt, impressing Richie with his “I don’t give a fuck anymore” attitude. But, truthfully, what impressed Richie more were the guts Eddie had dug deep for in order to go back and get it, to wear that fanny pack in front of the friends who’d seen him toss it out, because he couldn’t let go. Not yet.

Richie hated that Eddie knew he didn’t need all those pills, knew he didn’t even really have asthma, but that his mom fucked him up so bad his brain told him he had to have it anyways. He was brave enough to admit his faults, though.

Unlike Richie.

“Hey, let me have a hit,” he jokes. Changing the subject seems like the best course of action. Things _had_ been getting a little out of hand. His forehead’s still tingling from Eddie’s lips. “I’m feelin’ a little lightheaded here. You’re cutting off my circulation.”

“You don’t need an inhaler for that, Richie,” he says with the usual attitude. “I’m gonna drink the rest of this if you don’t just shut the fuck up already.”

“Move, then! Your giant head’s blocking my way!”

“ _Ugh_.”

Eddie doesn’t move, but he does grab the glass off the table to hold up near his shoulder and Richie has to lean forward to catch the straw in his mouth. There’s nothing to do except slurp as loudly as possible and grin when Eddie punches him in the arm.

He doesn’t comment on Richie staying slouched against him, half his chest pressed against half of Eddie’s back. And he doesn’t comment on Richie placing the quickest of kisses against the back of his head either, his noose tickled by feathery wisps of lavender smelling hair. Maybe he doesn’t feel it.

Maybe he doesn’t mind.

**~*~**

Okay, so Teenage Richie clearly had certain delusions about the whole _Eddie-feelings-thing_. He’d rarely hope for something more than he knew he should, switching between telling himself that Eddie wasn’t a fairy and would never feel that way about Richie to wondering if maybe Eddie had a little gay in him after all, and if it was Richie’s voice or face or laugh that made Eddie all twitchy and clingy when they were alone or pressed together in the sea of everyone else.

But of course he’d known better.

There’s nothing to say Eddie can’t like both. Maybe he likes chicks and dicks and that would be totally fine, that would be super cool and great, but it still doesn’t mean he _did_ or _could_ like Richie that way.

 _Love_ him.

Christ, he’d married his mother!

“I should go back there,” Richie mumbles to himself after what feels like a decade of idling in the empty street. The weight of those precious memories is starting to crush him. “I just left them in the lurch, man, I should go back there…” It all just feels so fresh. Is messing with his mind. Warring with his heart. But then he thinks of Pennywise floating down from that statue, taunting him with the one thing he’ll never be able to overcome, and he tries again to shake of all that sentimental bullshit. “What the _fuck_ _’re_ you talkin’ about. _Fuck_ that. _Fuck_ them. I got dates in fuckin’ _Reno_ , man…”

Yeah, dates he probably won’t make, if Bev was right about the whole dying thing. Doesn’t matter. He needs to just _go,_ to run away like always. Maybe he can go get blackout drunk before he’s taken out by what he’s sure will be some kind of weird alien magic.

He’s barely driven anywhere at all when the looming sight of Derry’s synagogue wracks a chill through him.

_Today We Pray For_

_Stanley Uris_

Richie’s eyes sting with an onslaught of tears he refuses to shed.

Is Stan still hanging on? Was his wife going to pull the plug? Would Pennywise finish him off if he wasn’t already dead? He curses Mike for a moment for calling them all in the first place, for making them honor an oath they made when they were thirteen and stupid and on top of the shitty world. It’s not Mike’s fault and it’s not Bill’s fault, but Richie needs _someone_ to blame.

Or he needs to _understand_ —why any of them had even come back at all, on the faintest of recollections, and why Stan would rather have died than face his fears—before he leaves for good.

The inside of the synagogue is empty and quiet for now, waiting to be filled up by solemn figures at 10am like the sign outside foretold. Richie doesn’t remember much about this place, but he can tell it hasn’t changed much at all.

His footsteps echo in the silence as he walks towards the pews, taking a spot similar to the one he’d sat in twenty-seven years ago for Stanley’s bar mitzvah. He thought it would’ve been boring, especially since he was the only Loser in a crowd full of strange adults and kids still in their single-digits. Richie had made it seem like the only reason he showed up was because his mom was friendly with the Uris family and that it would look bad if they didn’t attend, but Stan could sense the truth. That Richie had _wanted_ to be there for him because, despite all his joking and posturing, he really _had_ cared.

They’d both been lonely, both in need of support. Richie knew Stan’s reasoning, the pressures of growing up and being forced into a box your parents insisted you were meant to fit in, though Stanley didn’t know what Richie’s problem was. Never entirely. But looking back… Richie thinks that, although he never told his curly-haired friend outright, could never let anyone in on his _dirty little secret_ _,_ Stan might have had a bit of an idea.

He’d seen the splinters on Richie’s fingers but never asked where they’d come from.

( _Alone. On the Kissing Bridge. Stolen pocket knife. Sharp tip carving into pliant wood. Showing the world everything he knew he couldn’t say._

_R_

_R +_

_R + E)_

So Richie had been there for his friend. Had actually _listened_ to Stanley’s words of wisdom for once. If he closes his eyes he can hear that soft-spoken voice, in perfect clarity, echoing around the raised platform like it’s the very first time.

( _Today I’m supposed to become a man. It’s funny, though… Everyone, I think, has some memories they’re prouder of than others, right? And maybe that’s why change is so scary. ‘Cause the things we wish we could leave behind, the whispers we wish we could silence, the nightmares we most wanna wake up from, the memories we wish we could change, the secrets we feel like we have to keep… are the hardest to walk away from. The good stuff? The pictures in our mind that fade away the fastest? Those pieces of you, it feels the easiest to lose. Maybe I don’t want to forget. Maybe if—if that’s what today is all about… forget_ _it_ _, right? Uh, today I’m supposed to become a man, but I don’t feel any different. I_ — _I know I’m a loser and, no matter what, I always fucking will be.)_

It all still rang true today. Every single word. Richie thinks about clapping again, like he did back then, to disrupt the suffocating silence, but he lets it rest as is and instead wishes he could’ve held onto that speech for comfort in times where he’d felt the most alone.

( _I know I’m a loser. I always fucking will be_.

 _You can’t leave, man! We split, we all die!_ )

Ah, hell. Richie’s scared shitless, but he can’t run away. Not now, not from this. Not when they’re all here. Lucky number seven. He doesn’t want to be the jackass responsible for getting his friends killed.

Because they _are_ still his friends, even after all this time. They’d bonded in a way normal people couldn’t, had left their lives to return to Derry at the drop of a hat, because of _one_ phone call made by Mike Hanlon and _one_ promise made by Bill Denbrough, forever connecting them with an unbreakable thread that stretched seven ways and defied time and space and intergalactic magic.

There’s no way forty year old Richie Tozier is going to be a pussy about this when his thirteen year old self had big enough balls to follow his friends down into the damp darkness to kick some alien ass. He’s weak about a lot of things, but this? This can’t be one of them. He has to dig down deep, the deepest he’s gone in a long, long time, and make sure it’s not.

“Thanks for showing up, Stanley,” he whispers to the walls, knowing that even if he couldn’t find it in himself to return he was still somehow _with_ them. And he always would be.

Richie’s not sure if he believes in fate—if there _is_ such a thing then he has quite a few bones to pick with whoever spins the wheel of _his_ fucked up destiny—but he believes he must have stopped here for a reason. 

_Dammit._ Why does he have to be such a fucking schmuck?

Richie takes a deep breath, stands, and walks out of the synagogue with only one destination in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I split the fic into chapters previously since the majority of it is complete but hadn't realized how long this one was until I went to edit before posting. I also hadn't realized that present!Eddie doesn't show up in this one at all, but hopefully all that cute flashback goodness makes up for that! (The flashback is actually the excerpt from a scrapped WIP I started after Chap1 came out. I was glad I got to eventually to tweak it and work it into this story rather than abandon it entirely.)
> 
> I know we're still treading movie-territory, I apologize for that, but the next chapter will be the last one taking on the events of the movie. We'll get into the /real/ fix-it stuff soon.
> 
> I hope anyone who has decided to read this is enjoying it so far. There's quite a lot more to come. Please, give me your thoughts if you have the time. :) Thank you!
> 
> (edit to say that I had to have The Way You Do The Things You Do by The Temptations in this fic in some way because it played during the bike scene in the miniseries and that's just one part of the 1990 adaptation that has always stuck with me, ever since I was a kid lol)


	3. Nothing Lasts Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [warning for: Eddie's death (it's temporary)]

The scene Richie stumbles upon isn’t what he’d expected.

There’s a mess in the entryway, with books and glass and historical artifacts that should’ve been in a proper museum just strewn about in a classic sign of a struggle. Mike’s on the ground, using all his strength to stop a knife from plunging into his face as he winces and groans, and some nasty looking fucker with a greasy mullet is kneeling over him, trying to kill him—

Henry Bowers. That’s _Henry_ fucking _Bowers._ Richie would know those insane giggle anywhere, now that he remembers how often it used to follow him home during those in-between years, before he’d gone full cuckoo by killing his father and his lapdog pals.

Hearing that deranged laughter ring through the library so soon after Pennywise had picked and prodded at old, festering scabs… well, it gets Richie’s blood boiling fast, salted and roiling. He reacts without giving a second thought to what his actions are or what the consequences might be.

“Crispy, like fried _fucking_ —”

There was an axe on the floor near Richie’s feet just a second ago. That axe is now sticking out from the back of Henry’s greasy head, the fresh gash leaking thick globs of shimmering blood. _Actual_ blood, syrupy and overflowing. From a real human being, no illusions required. Because of what Richie had just done.

Henry slumps to the ground, like a puppet whose strings have been snipped, falling over limp when he’d been alive not even five seconds prior. And that’s when it hits, that he’s _dead_. Deceased. Not-so-dearly-departed. _Murdered_. 

Oh, Jesus. Oh _shit_.

Richie wonders if he’ll end up on _Investigation Discovery_ for this. Negative publicity is still publicity, after all, and that wouldn’t even be one of the _worst_ gigs he’s ever had. But could Richie’s hand in the demise of escaped convict-slash-loony Henry Bowers be considered justifiable homicide? He really fucking hopes so.

His chest grows uncomfortably tight the longer he stares at the unmoving body of the bully that tormented him and his friends all way back then.

“Guess you could say that was… long overdo,” Richie rasps, trying his best to laugh it off. He can barely catch his breath. “Get it? ‘Cause… we’re in a—” His stomach churns and _uh-oh,_ “—library.”

He retches onto the floor without control, spewing puke from his mouth in a burst of acidic chunks that nearly coats Mike’s leg when it splatters. He waves it off and stumbles away before the view of his own slimy upchuck can make him gag some more.

As Richie is wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, the door flies opens and three sets of feet rush in. He feels like a dick for thinking Bev’s shrill shriek is a little overkill—ah, over _kill_. The thing he literally just did to his childhood tormentor. _Wow_.

Richie forces his gaze to land on literally anything other than the corpse of Henry Bowers and the axe lodged into his cracked skull. And, okay, but what the _fuck_ happened to Eddie’s cheek?

“Are you—are you alright?” Ben croaks.

Richie’s adrenaline is crashing hard suddenly, leaving exhausted panic in its wake. This is _not_ what he needs right before The Losers v Pennywise, Part Deux is set to unfold.

“ _No,_ I’m not alright!” he snaps. “I just fucking killed a guy!”

Eddie’s brows shoot up over comically wide eyes. He looks equal parts shocked, horrified, and impressed.

“I was talking to Mike…”

“Oh, okay.” Throwing his arms up, he turns away and winces at the foul taste in his mouth. There’s a wrinkly stick of gum in his back pocket, warmed from his car ride over, but he pops it in for some mild relief. “Thanks, Ben. Real fuckin’ nice. Seriously appreciated.”

Ben opens his mouth, most likely to apologize, but Richie shakes his head dismissively. He doesn’t want to dwell on this situation for too long, doesn’t want to dwell on it at _all_. He killed Henry Bowers, so fucking what? The guy had it coming. Richie can dissociate if he has to but he’s absolutely not going to _mourn_. Not for a shitstain like him. Besides, there are bigger things happening—like Mike’s bleeding arm, for instance. 

Bev rushes off in search of a First-Aid kit once she notices the injury. Richie’s surprised Eddie hadn’t jumped on the chance to rub his little gremlin paws on and around a bunch of medical supplies; although, with the way he’s staring at Richie, slowly shuffling closer, it’s safe to assume his mind is decidedly elsewhere.

“You okay, Richie?”

“Shit, man. Yeah, I think? Did that seriously just happen?”

“It seriously did. Jesus, Rich, I stabbed Bowers in the chest, but you? You fucking launched an _axe_ into the back of his _head_. Are you fucking crazy?”

“I saved Mike’s life, asshole! And—wait, Eddie, you _stabbed_ him? And what the fuck happened to your face? Were you tryin’ to give your toothbrush a blowjob?”

“No, dickwad! Bowers showed up in my room and shoved a fucking knife in my cheek, and he started laughing like a psychopath so _I_ started laughing like a psychopath, and then I pulled the fucking knife out—and it was disgusting, like the noise alone, _bleh_ —and there was blood everywhere and I think he severed a nerve or some shit ‘cause I can’t feel half my face right now? But I got in the tub and pulled the curtain shut, right, and—”

“Wow, great hiding place, MacGyver. Absolutely genius.”

“Shut up. And then I yanked the sucker out and sort of just… pushed my hand forward? Like, at the same time he was lunging for me, I guess, and it stabbed him. _I_ stabbed him. In the chest. And then I just sort of backed outta the room…” Eddie pauses for a breath, only to have it stolen away by a short laugh. “Dude, I fucking told him to cut his thirty year old mullet, can you believe that?”

“Did you really? With blood leaking out of your face hole and everything?”

“You really don’t have to say it like that, you fucking sicko, but yeah. _Yes_. I did.”

“He was spitting blood and he asked me if it was _bad_ ,” Bev adds. She smiles shakily and drops the kit onto the table in front of Mike, where Ben immediately digs in and gets to work.

“She sewed me up.” Eddie offers her a semi-pained closed-lip smile. “Thanks again.”

“No problem, Eds.”

She moves around the table to sit on the edge, next to Ben so she can look down at Mike’s arm. Richie and Eddie aren’t _alone-_ alone, but they’re more alone than they have been since they’d first locked eyes inside Jade. Other than the large bandage covering Eddie’s cheek, Richie notices that he’s changed his outfit. He’s wearing simple jeans and a pale yellow tee under a dark navy hooded jacket now and it’s honestly unfair, how well it suits him. How freaking _good_ he looks, in the middle of a time like this.

 _Fuck you,_ Richie wants to say, enraged with everything he can’t handle feeling, but then he gets distracted.

Eddie’s button nose is longer, his lips thinner, his chin a tad more squared. His cheeks have lost their baby fat and most of their freckles, and there’s a shadow above his mouth that suggests he shaves regularly. There are permanent lines on his forehead, crows feet around his deep-set cocoa colored eyes, and the angle of his brows are as low as they can go, perpetually worried in their slope. There are traces of the kid Eddie used to be etched into every inch of the middle-aged face he wears now, as a man. A perfect mix of sweet and masculine and _dorky_. He’s not so much cute anymore (okay, maybe a _little_ cute, he always will be), but, like, _really_ freaking handsome. Richie had thought so immediately at the restaurant.

Or, what he’d _really_ thought had been ‘ _what the fuck, he’s fucking hot, holy shit,_ ’ but same difference.

Eddie’s got his arms crossed tight across his chest, like how Richie’s got his hands tucked deep inside his pockets, and they stare at each other awkwardly for several beats, just blinking and breathing and sizing each other up.

Eddie wants Richie to say something, he realizes, because that’s what he always did when the silence got too tough to stomach. He’d break it, vocalize whatever random thought hit him first. They could always count on Richie to shift the mood, for better or worse. He tries not to disappoint.

“Uh. Wow. That’s—when’d you become such a badass, man?” he teases, knowing damn well that Eddie had always been a tough little cookie. “Looks like I missed all the good shit, huh?”

“Yeah, guess so.” Eddie’s eyes flit over Richie’s face with an intensity that makes Richie freeze. Those caterpillar brows pull in tight. “Where’d you go, anyway? You were gone forever.”

Richie snorts.

“Doesn’t your job require you to do math on a daily basis? It was just a few hours, Eddie, thought you’d be able to count it out. Chillax.”

The smaller man rolls his eyes and shifts on his feet, looking like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin.

“Yeah, and _your_ job requires you to be funny but you suck at that, so look who’s talking.”

“I told you I don’t write my own material. My real shit’s hilarious, I’ll have you know.”

“Why is that? Never thought you’d let anyone tell you what to do or say, Rich. Doesn’t it feels disingenuous to get up there and act like you’re proud of what you’re saying? I mean, I know comedy’s hyperbolic and it’s just make-believe bullshit most of the time, but you could at least write your _own_ make-believe bullshit, couldn’t you? So why not?”

It’s just another question Richie doesn’t have a clear answer for, so he shrugs like it doesn’t matter, eager to play it off. He can’t exactly tell Eddie that all his good jokes somehow involve outing himself to the world. It’s like, the more he avoids the topic the more his brain wants to infuse it into everything, everywhere. And also, he’s too depressed to come up with anything past the realm of Dark Humor, which wouldn’t particularly land well with his current demographic. Go figure.

But maybe the biggest truth of all is that he simply stopped caring at some in the past; stopped connecting with the audience, with _himself_ , and could never find the urge to ever plug back in to what once was a great joy and _not_ just an easy shield. He hopes that will change. He hopes for a lot of things.

“I just don’t have time anymore,” Richie lies, and Eddie makes a face like he’d just smelled a pile of shit. Which, _fair._ “How’d you even know that, anyway?”

“What? How’d I know you’d be a hack?”

“How’d you know I didn’t write my own jokes? You were all over it after I got punkd by that kid. Did you watch my shows? Were you _stalking_ me?”

“Oh my god. I didn’t even know who you _were_ , dumbass, so no, I wasn’t stalking you! But—you’re on TV all the time, you _somehow_ take up all the good slots—”

“My schtick isn’t Hallmark-friendly, Eds. Nice try.”

“Fuck off,” he huffs. “I guess maybe I had you on in the background, sometimes. Like, I didn’t know who you were, obviously—or, I mean, I didn’t know I _knew_ you, but you felt familiar. Probably ‘cause of how unfunny you were, that’s something the clown couldn’t erase.” His face scrunches thoughtfully, a wistful smile coming and going in a quick dissolve, giving Richie mild whiplash. “Or… your voice, maybe,” he says faintly. Solemn. _Soft_. “The way you delivered your jokes and threw yourself around like an idiot, and then you’d just start laughing out of _nowhere_ —”

“I’ve always been my own biggest fan,” he quips with far more self-loathing than he’d originally been aiming for. Eddie’s expression wavers.

“Well. I admittedly didn’t have much taste back then, being a thirteen year old asthmatic loser and all, but… I was your fan too, Trashmouth.”

A breath. A beat. The world pauses. Richie clears his throat discreetly, feeling jittery and exposed, while Eddie stare unblinkingly.

“But you aren’t anymore, is what you’re saying.”

“You’re not _tha_ t bad.” There’s a hint of another smile, though only on one side of his mouth, appearing closer to a grimace thanks to the pain of his injury. The dimple it creates is frankly _ridiculous_. “Some people I work with would talk about you in the elevator, and they’d say you were hilarious, which I always thought was fucking dumb. I mean, they never knew you like I did, when you’d make me laugh so hard I swore I was gonna piss myself, and the shit you say now is like... barely half of—”

“Wait, so your friends aren’t all as boring as you?”

“I said people I _work with_ , are you fucking deaf? They’re not my friends. I hate everyone in that building. And fuck off! _You’re_ the one who’s boring. I was trying to be _nice_ , but you know what? I bet none of those girls you joke about fucking are even real! Your writers have to make _everything_ up for you ‘cause you have no life experience, which is super fucking pathetic and I feel sorry for you—”

“ _Wow_ , you know what? I can’t believe I’m only just now realizing how much of an asshole you’ve always been.” Despite the harshness of his words Richie doesn’t mean it as an insult. On the contrary, he’s positively delighted by Eddie’s antagonism, even if it hits a little too close to home. “You remember when you rubbed your nasty feet all over my face down in the clubhouse?”

“My feet aren’t nasty! Your _face_ is nasty!”

“Or the time you almost broke Stan’s nose with that freaking paddle ball? Or how you literally tried to drown me at the quarry—”

“You’re so fucking dramatic, Rich. Jesus Christ.”

“And yes, all those girlfriends _are_ fake, asshole,” he blurts. Eddie’s head tilts to the side like an oversized puppy and all Richie can think is: _fucking kill me now_. “I mean, obviously. You know your mom’s my one true love.”

Eddie bristles immediately, face pinching with the usual look of constipation that Richie loves way too much. Richie can always count on him to take the bait.

“My mother is _dead_ , Rich. Give it a rest, man.”

“Oh yeah? Well, that’s weird ‘cause I’m pretty sure you married her.” Eddie freezes at Richie’s words and gawks at him like he’s got two heads, both of which he wants to rip off. Even at this age, even when Richie can read the room and understand when to leave well enough alone, in the presence of Eddie he’s rendered suddenly incapable. “I know I said _I_ was married to her, but _damn_ , man. Myra?”

“ _No_ ,” Eddie says, sharp as steel and laced with dread. “You fucking did _not_ —”

“What? I’m not allowed to look her up? Maybe you should hide your shit if you don’t want people finding it! You don’t own the internet, Eddie.”

“Just—just shut the fuck up, Richie! I’m not doing this right now—”

“Did you two get married in Alabama? Inbreeding’s legal there, right?”

“I swear to _God_ —”

“Did you really not notice?” Richie laughs. It’s dry and empty and he knows he’s an asshole but he can’t stop. Never could, when it came to Eddie. “Do you call her _mommy_ when you’re—”

“ _Shut. Up._ ” It’s low. Deadly. Unlike anything he’s ever heard from his once-close friend before. Richie’s jaw slams shut immediately. He itches under the weight of Eddie’s gaze as it pins him in place. “Just… _stop_ , for once in your goddamn life. Stop.”

He walks away from Richie then, looking over his shoulder with that same pinched expression, but… but something crazy in Richie’s head tells him that Eddie isn’t even really all that mad at _him_. He knows Eddie’s fury, can remember it in dull shades and faded slides, and it was similar to this but not the _same_. He looks more upset with himself, actually, and isn’t that strange?

Richie’s been poking the bear, he deserves to get mauled, but it seems like he’s chased the bear back into the woods more than anything.

When Eddie faces completely away from him a few feet away, Richie allows his held breath to finally escape in a quick burst, and he darts his eyes over to the table where Ben, Mike, and Bev are seated. They’re watching him with unreadable expressions. 

Mike’s unable to match Richie’s stare for long, though, and is the first to look away. Ben’s just finishing up the bandaging when he asks, “Where’s Bill? He should’ve been here by now.”

Bev appears mildly distraught.

“Something happened at the Town House. Pennywise… It sent Bill a message about some kid. I think the same one you Richie yelled at. There was something about not being able to protect him or—” Her eyes shut tight, trying to recall. “He left. To go find the kid. Maybe I should’ve gone with him, I just—”

“It’s best if we stick together,” Ben says comfortingly. Richie thinks he might reach out to touch her, but the movement is soon aborted and his raised hand winds up tapping against the table instead. “Like now. We’re all here. It’s safest that way. And Bill’s probably on his way, right?”

Mike doesn’t look like he wants to leave Bill’s whereabouts on good faith alone, pulling out his phone to tap on the contact info he’s had for God knows how long. Richie wants to ask why he never contacted them before all this, why he never called them out for a reunion while the monster under Derry’s underbelly had been down for the count, but he doesn’t have a chance before the call connects and goes through.

“Bill, it’s Mike. We’re all at the library, where you at?”

Richie can’t make out what the reply is, just that the voice on the other end is loud and desperate and hits something in Mike that gets him jumping out of his seat. Eddie, who’d been avoiding Richie’s gaze up until then, turns toward the movement curiously. Ben keeps his focus on putting the medical supplies away, but Bev looks over in concern.

Richie’s got a bad feeling brewing in his gut.

“ _No_ _!_ _N_ _o, no, no_ … Just—just come here, to the library. We can talk about the plan—” A heavy pause. “ _No!_ No, Bill! _Bill_ —”

Mike lowers the phone and throws his hands out after the call abruptly ends. His heavy sigh doesn’t preface anything good.

“He’s going to fight It alone.”

“What?”

“ _Alone,_ ” Mike stresses.

“’Cause that _always_ works out,” Richie grumbles at the same time Eddie hisses “ _Dammit_ , Bill.”

“It’s about the _group!_ ” Mike picks up the ritualistic bucket thing he’d apparently gotten from some Native Americans somewhere along the way and slams it down frantically. Richie picks it up and spins it in his hands. “The ritual doesn’t work without the group!”

Pictures are carved into each of its sides, decorated with foreign symbols Richie doesn’t know how to read or comprehend, but there’s something interesting on one panel. Something that’s been scratched over roughly again and again.

“Doing it _together_ is why it worked!”

Richie squints and leans forward, only to have the bucket snatched away by Mike, who eyes him like he’s done something bad.

“Mike,” Ben says, “did he tell you where he was going?”

It takes a moment for Bev to glance up in sudden realization. Mike clues in, too.

“If he really wanted to kill Pennywise… there’s only one place he’d go.”

“The same place the ritual needs to be performed.”

“Oh,” Eddie groans on a long exhale. “We’re not gonna like this, are we?”

Ben’s quiet utterance of _fuck_ would make Richie smile if he wasn’t too busy trying not to shit his pants.

He thought he’d have more time to prepare for this, to grab a last meal or tame his nerves with a few fingers of whiskey, but no. All Richie has time to do before his potential (probable) demise is take a deep breath and try to remember that he’d gotten all his courage from his fellow Losers the last time they’d done this. That’s all he ever really needed. He can feel it sparking inside him now.

He’s in it to win it, baby. No more turning back.

*** * ***

They somehow manage to cram five bodies into one car. It’s Ben’s, Richie thinks, or at least his rental, and it’s uncomfortable as shit, his Richie’s shoulders rubbing against Mike’s and Eddie’s without relief, but simply being together in this time of anxiety is a worthwhile trade-off.

The drive is going to be a quick one. Richie only needs a minute or so to make sure he and Eddie are okay after what went down in the library, though. He really doesn’t want all that irrelevant crap hanging over their heads while they have their rematch against Derry’s resident sewer monster.

“Eddie,” Richie leans over to whisper. There isn’t any room to move, what with three grown men (two and a half, really) pressed against each other in the backseat, but he manages to twist his upper body away from Mike to get a little privacy. Which means his nose is so close to Eddie’s that those all-too familiar feathery strands of hair nearly fly up his nostrils when he takes even the tiniest of breaths.

“Get the fuck out of my face,” Eddie grunts petulantly, jamming his elbow against the car door. “Your breath seriously stinks.”

“Thanks,” he replies flatly. “Eddie, I gotta talk to you.”

“What, _now?_ What for?”

Richie had been expecting immediate dismissal. The fact that Eddie seems at least a little open to the idea of having a conversation calms him, just a tad.

A voice in the back of his mind, one that sounds suspiciously like Stan, tells him, fleetingly, to confess his twenty-eight year old secret here and now. Before it’s too late. Before he regrets it for the rest of his life. Like maybe if he says it now and makes Eddie hate him for it then they can all just… forget again, once this is all over and they leave Derry behind for the second time, and it won’t even matter—except to Richie, who’d have to live with rejection but wouldn’t have to carry the weight of his secret love around for another almost thirty years. If he lives that long. If they _remember_. But that’s optimistic, isn’t it? He might not even make it past tonight.

The crazy part of Richie Tozier wants to say it, wants to just spit it out, to get it over with. The scared part of Richie Tozier is a little more reluctant, saying _‘nuh uh, no way, José_ ’ while plugging his ears and shutting his eyes. He can’t be selfish right now and make this moment all about himself and his issues. And fuck, Eddie doesn’t need Richie’s sorry ass dumping anything else on him, not while he’s trembling at the thought of having to step one foot back into that house, those sewers, all over again.

“Yes, _now_. You think we’re gonna have time later?”

Eddie’s head spins toward him so fast that Richie nearly jerks back into Mike.

“Bro, what the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean? Do you think we’re gonna die? I’m trying to analyze this shit—don’t fucking say _anything_ , Richie—and I can’t really until we get in there and see what we’re working with, but like, in my professional opinion? My best estimation? Our chances are pretty damn abysmal, alright, but that doesn’t mean you can just _say_ it, okay?! We have to be confident about this shit, otherwise we’re just gonna end up failing. Get ahold of yourself!”

“Me? Get ahold of _my_ self?” Richie barks a laugh that earns a quick check-in from Beverly. “Eddie, you look like you’re about to faint.”

“First of all, I don’t _faint_ , jackass. And if I did it wouldn’t even be fainting, it’d be _losing consciousness,_ but that’s—never mind. Second of all, I can’t find my _fucking_ inhaler, so yeah, Sherlock, I might be feeling a little lightheaded right now, because I can’t fucking _breathe_ —”

Richie’s not so sure about that, considering Eddie’s breathing fine enough to chew him out like this, but he doesn’t say so, choosing to search through the cramped darkness instead. It takes Richie two seconds flat to find the inhaler resting on the floorboard beside their feet, probably having fallen out of Eddie’s pocket when he climbed in. He rolls his eyes.

“You dropped it, dummy. Look—will you just _listen_ for a sec?”

Eddie snatches the inhaler from Richie like it personally offends him and takes a long puff after wiping off the mouthpiece on his undershirt. He side-eyes Richie the whole time.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“When I said we wouldn’t have time later I meant, like, while we’re busy fighting a demonic clown? I wasn’t saying we’re all gonna die.”

“We probably will, though.”

“Okay, Mr. Doom and Gloom. I mean, I’m not gonna argue with you on that, because shit, yeah, but I’m _trying_ to say sorry and you’re making it pretty freaking hard—”

“Sorry? _You’re_ saying _sorry?_ Richie, are you okay? Are you gonna puke again? If you do, _please,_ for the love of God, turn towards Mike. I can’t handle this again. Twice in one day will literally kill—uh, no offence.” Eddie grins the best he can when Mike finally shoots them a wary look, though Richie thinks he’s probably heard everything they’d said so far and was just being polite by staring out the window.

“Twice in one day? What the hell happened while I was gone? Did Bowers puke on you?”

“Nothing. _No_.” Eddie waves his hand, smacking Richie in the face on accident. “It’s not important. I’m just saying—”

“No, _I’m_ just saying,” Richie cuts in. “I’m just saying… I’m sorry, alright? I shouldn’t’ve said what I said. About your wife. I was—I was being a dick.”

“You’re _always_ a dick.”

The memory he relived earlier floats through his mind, leaving a cloud of warmth in his chest. Forty year old Eddie still smells like lavender.

“Like… because I’m Richard, or—”

“Yes, Einstein.”

“Do, uh… do you remember making that joke? Before?” he wonders. He’s been thinking about it a lot and he can’t _not_ ask.

Eddie goes silent for a moment. Fiddles with the zipper on his hooded jacket as well as the headlamp he’d stashed in the car ahead of time. Richie is vaguely aware of Ben and Bev having a whispered conversation up front, but his leg’s bouncing up and down because he knows they’ll be there any second and he just wants to know if Eddie remembers, if he recalls it the same way Richie does, and he swallows hard when Eddie huffs.

“Yeah, I remember. It was a party for Bev since she was leaving. First of us go to.”

“And Mike bought us milkshakes.”

“You and me, we got strawberry.”

“I wanted chocolate but you were such a little bitch about it—”

“You _liked_ it, asshole! Don’t even try—”

“—And you punched me in the dick,” Richie says, barely a whisper. _You kissed my forehead,_ he wants to add. _I thought about that for weeks._

“I said I was sorry,” Eddie murmurs after a second or two, and up this close Richie can see the fondness etched across his well-worn features.

Richie doesn’t think anyone’s ever looked at him the way Eddie does, he knows that no one ever will, but he also knows that it doesn’t mean what he desperately wishes it did. That, for Eddie, it’s a type of love he can explain; love for a brother, a best friend, someone with a very specific shared life experience. For Richie, it’s a love he _can’t_ explain. Because it’s so much more than anything anyone could ever articulate.

Disappointment catches in his throat. He chokes it down.

“You did say it,” he says at last. “So now it’s my turn.”

“I heard you, Richie. It’s… it’s okay. Its _fine._ You were being an asshole, but—”

The car screeches to a sudden stops with three doors opening immediately. The fourth door flings out once Eddie tears his gaze away from Richie.

“There he is! Look!” Ben’s gesturing to the Well House that’s unfortunately still standing, ugly and condemned, on Neibolt street. They rush towards the lone man walking up the creaking steps.

“Bill!”

“ _No!_ ” Bill is crying openly, fat tears of pain and frustration and _fear_ rolling down his cheeks. The five of them huddle together near the steps with Bill, the sixth, rooted at the front. It’d be exactly like back then if only Stan were bringing up the rear. Richie imagines his presence anyhow. “No, you guys, _no_! I s-s-s-started all this. It’s my fault that y-you’re all here. This curse. This fucking _thing_ that’s inside you all. It-It started growing the day that I mmm-m-made you go down to the barrens ‘cause all _I_ cared about was finding G-G-Georgie.”

Bill looks to his companions, desperate, devastated, eyes glossy and determined. Richie remembers trying to be patient with him, sympathetic, even though he and Eddie and Stan had known that the likelihood of Georgie coming home was way below zero. And then he’d hit his limit and snapped, and for a while Richie had thought they’d never be friends again. He’s never been more glad to be wrong.

( _I’m the one who dragged you all into this. Leave. Go!_ )

Bill had tried to save them before, albeit it a little bit late. He’d recognized that he’d been the catalyst and that Richie had been right to call him out for dragging them into something they should’ve just turned a blind eye to like everyone else. But he’d always wanted to deal with the bad stuff on his own, as the leader of their ragtag crew, and that just wasn’t acceptable to anyone, not when friendship was all you had. All or nothing. Everyone or no one. 

Richie remembers loving these people so much. Remembers thinking that they were the only family he’d ever need. Richie remembers that he would’ve done anything for them, fear and logic be damned, because he knew they’d do anything for _him_ , too. 

He remembers because those feelings are beginning to spark inside him once more, taking root and sprouting slowly. It’s why he’d let Bill spill his blood as a promise in the first place.

“Now, I’m gonna guh- _go_ in there and I don’t know what’s gonna happen, but I can’t ask you to do this…”

( _Guys, we can’t!_ )

Beverly leans down as Bill trails off, slim fingers curling around a rusted iron fence post laying on the ground. She’d saved them all before with a near identical weapon because she also, as a mirror of Bill, could never leave well-enough alone. They all owed their asses to her and that debt would probably double soon.

“Well… we’re not asking you, either.”

“Bev—”

“We didn’t do it alone then, Bill,” Mike reminds. “So we’re not gonna do this alone now.”

“Losers stick together,” Ben rasps in solidarity, and Richie feels the weight of the world simultaneously lift and fall onto his stiff shoulders.

He thinks of Stan again and hopes they’ll be able to tell him all about this little moment and how right he was about always being a Loser. Richie’s sinuses tighten uncomfortably. He distracts himself by looking over at Eddie just as the smaller man shifts and begins to speak.

“So, does somebody wanna say something?”

“Richie said it b-b-best, when we were here last.”

“I did?” Eddie glances at him with the same amount of surprise Richie feels. “I don’t wanna die?”

“Not that.”

“You’re lucky we’re not measuring dicks?”

They all look at him for that one. _What?_ He’s trying here! It’s kind of hard to recall something he might’ve said during a time of crisis twenty-seven years ago—

Wait.

( _I told you, Bill. I fucking told you. I don’t wanna die. It’s your fault. You punched me in the face, you made me walk through shitty water, you brought me to a fucking crackhead house! And now, I’m gonna have to kill this fucking clown._ )

“Let’s kill this fucking clown?”

There are tear tracks still fresh on Bill’s face, but he’s not crying any longer. He grins at Richie’s words, telling him he’s right on the money, and nods. So does Richie.

“Let’s kill this fucking clown!”

They slowly trek in—together this time, not just a group of three—and peer around the place with their flashlights, noting webs, dirt, dust, mold, sludge.

 _Sludge,_ black and sizzling, like tar or _blood_ , dripping down the fucking walls, boiling over onto the rickety staircase. The same shit that had spewed out of Not Eddie’s mouth a floor up, that had come out of the fortune cookies and spread all across the Jade’s round table.

 _It isn’t real_.

“Well, I love what he’s done with the place.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bev mumbles.

He barely hears her as he passes in front of Eddie when Bill starts to wander too far, just to make sure they won’t be forced into splitting up again. He’s aware of Eddie following close behind, eager to _not_ repeat the same mistake of lingering, although Bev, Ben, and Mike go a little more slowly, lost in their thoughts.

“That’s the basement.” Bill shines his light towards the door he’s referring to and yep, Richie remembers _that_ descent just as clearly as he remembers _this_ room and barging in to find a massive clown with rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth ready to devour Eddie whole.

He remembers Bev stabbing It in the head, remembers rushing over to cradle Eddie’s face in his hands in a desperate attempt to lock eyes one last time; remembers watching Bill chase after the giant fucker while the others screamed their voices hoarse; remembers a demand of _don’t fucking touch me_ and the careful crunch of Eddie’s broken bone snapping into place.

The basement. The well. The cistern.

They startle when Ben yells from the other room, crying out in utter agony. The door between them and the others slams shut the way it would if they were trapped inside some shitty paranormal movie.

“No— _no!”_ Eddie bellows. He’s the first to run over, slapping a palm against the chipping wood that blocks them in. “Hey, hey, Ben! _Ben!_ Open the door!”

Bill joins him immediately, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Ben! _BEN!_ ”

Richie knows they’re fucked as he stands there and watches, trying to _think_ , but it’s when the a refrigerator in the corner begins to rattle dangerously that he breaks into a cold sweat.

 _Is your refrigerator running?_ Richie’s mind quips in a stroke of sheer panic. He doesn’t say it, though; just stares and backs slowly away, the clattering metal growing louder until Bill and Eddie are alerted to their newest predicament.

“That… can’t be good, right?”

The door swings open before anyone can answer, revealing a body inside, twisted and contorted like a human pretzel.

“Oh—”

_No. Please no. Please no._

The head, between two legs that rest at broken angles, slowly rises, revealing skin that’s decayed and cracking. The eyes are glassy, pointed in different directions, _wrong_ , and the curly hair of a young boy—

Richie’s shaking. The chill that wracks through him makes it hard to stand still. His vision blurs.

“It’s Stan.”

“What the _fuck?_ ” Eddie coughs through clenched teeth and choppy breaths. “Is he dead? Does this mean he’s dead? Is Stan _dead_ now? Oh my fucking _god_ —”

Stan’s head screams, which makes Richie scream, and then his fucking _head_ fucking _falls off_ , and it rolls toward Richie while Eddie and Bill slam themselves against the wall with surprised yelps. Richie practically trips over himself trying to jump out of the way as the nasty thing launches at him like a bowling ball.

It hits an overturned drawer, stops haltingly, and stares dead at them murkily. Beyond Richie’s obvious concern ( _is Stan really dead? Is he still in a coma? Why the fuck do they have to witness this?_ ) and disgust ( _a fucking severed head, man! Of Stanley Uris!_ ), he becomes worried at the sound of Eddie gasping for breath in the corner. But he can’t look away from the gruesome sight laying at his feet.

It’s so _real_ _._ It can’t be. It _can’t_.

“I tried to kill myself, Bill,” the deceptively soft voice of thirteen year old Stanley Uris speaks. “I’m dying and it’s all your fault.”

“N-no,” Bill weakly denies. “No…”

They pause when Stan’s pale, bruised skin begins to squirm and wiggle, as if there are bugs scurrying around beneath. Distantly, the screams from the other room reach a fever pitch. He knows they need to get out of here, he just doesn’t know _how_.

“Richie!” Stan cries. “What’s happening to me?”

_I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t fucking know, what the shit—_

Sticks pierce through dirty flesh and slip through eye sockets, sprouting out into long, crooked spider legs ( _i_ _t’s so you don’t get spiders stuck in your hair when you’re down here_ )that summon a terrified yell straight from Eddie’s throat.

“You’ve gotta be _fucking_ kidding…”

The head takes a moment to laugh, enjoying their terrifying discomfort, before scrambling toward Richie with its sharp teeth bared.

He runs as much as their tiny prison allows, avoiding getting chomped on while screaming and shouting _fuck fuck fuck_ until the head veers away from him in an attack on the others. He hears a reedy “ _dammit, get away from me!”_ and glances over to witness Eddie kick the horrid head away like he would a soccer ball, shimmying past Richie to back himself into a corner farther away, mouth open and gasping for air the whole time. When it sets its sights on Bill next, crawling up the wall toward him with an enraged squeal, he uses a flashlight to knock the sucker through a window-sized hole.

The head disappears from view, the clown’s telltale giggle echoing through the rafters as it frantically scurries. Richie does a sweep of the area he’d heard the most noise from, but it’s so freaking dark and his heart feels like it’s about to explode, and there’s really only one thing on his mind when he turns around.

Eddie’s leaning against the wall, so close that he might as well be glued to it, totally frozen in terror.

“ _Eddie,_ ” he breathes, lungs constricting desperately. His strides are long and purposeful. “Are you okay?”

Those big, dark eyes connect with Richie’s instantly.

“I—”

And then he’s cross-eyed, suddenly, due to a thin long string of goopy saliva hanging between them, dripping down from the ceiling. He hates the way Eddie’s gaze moves from his to lock onto this new development, but Richie’s curiosity is dreadful enough to make him do the same.

Demonic chuckling is never a good sign.

“Oh.” His skin prickles with a massive chill. “There he is.”

The words barely make it off his tongue before Stan’s Spider Head flops down onto him, hitting hard and knocking him off balance, sending him to the floor with an awful noise ripping from his throat. He’s strong enough to hold it off his face a few inches, but undeniably _not_ strong enough to claw it off and toss it away.

Its putrid saliva drips across his skin and hair and glasses. He thinks some of it even slips into his mouth.

“ _GET IT OFF ME!_ ” he pleads, kicking at the floor beneath him like finding some leverage might do the trick. It doesn’t.

Oh _god_ , he’s gonna _die._ He’s gonna get his face chomped off by the severed head of one of his best friends and he never even got to tell Eddie how he feels because he’s a fucking _pussy_ , a _chickenshit_ , a good for nothing _coward_. He should say it, just say it now, scream ‘ _Eddie, I love you, I love you, don’t look, don’t watch, get the fuck out of here!_ ’ But all his would-be words morph into panicked shouts as he begs and cries like he did the first time someone stole his glasses and shoved him into a locker during sixth grade.

“Th-the knife! God _dammit_ , Eddie, GET THE KNIFE!”

“ _Bill!_ _”_ He zeroes in on that voice as he fights for his life. “Get it offa me, Bill! Quick!”

“Eddie, get the knife!”

His glasses are knocked off by a hairy, squirming legs, and the weight of this—this _thing bears_ down so forcefully he can feel the tip of its nose, the sharp twinge of its teeth, graze his cheek. It’s adrenaline fueled by the hysteria of not knowing how much longer you’ve got left to live that gives him the energy to push for space.

The head stops squirming between Richie’s hands when a sudden force slams into the back of it, over and over and over again. He can’t see too well without his glasses and with all the slime covering his face, but he thinks there are little specks of blood getting sucked upward, into the air, and the noises being made—outside of some screeching and gurgling—sound a lot like Ben grunting and yelling with each stab he unleashes onto this unholy beast. The moment of respite as Bill pries the legs away and chucks the creature wearing Stan’s visage hard against the wall.

“Is—is everybody okay?” Beverly asks breathlessly, coming closer. Richie feels her blazer being pressed against him as he chokes on bile and demon spit.

“I can’t see,” he croaks helplessly, so Bev wipes his eyes and gently places his glasses back onto his nose. Things are still pretty unclear, especially with a cracked lens, but he can hear just fine beyond all the ringing in his ears.

“He could’ve f-fu-fucking _died_ , man! You kno-know that, right?!” Bill’s shouting. There’s a thump of someone hitting the wall. “Georgie’s dead! And th-the kid’s dead! Stan— _Stanley_ might be dead! Y-y-you want R-Richie, too? YOU WANT RICHIE, TOO?!”

“ _Bill_ ,” Mike scolds. “Bill!”

“You—!”

“I don’t! I don’t want Richie, too!” Eddie sputters in the corner, which isn’t surprising, but Richie—in his frazzled state—hadn’t exactly considered who Bill was laying into. “I don’t—I don’t—”

Richie blinks and leans on Bev’s folded legs so he can stare up at Bill’s heaving shoulders and Eddie’s broken expression.

“Please don’t be mad, Bill. I was just scared...”

Eddie keeps stealing glances at Richie, alternating rapidly between the two of them, bewildered and distressed. He’s young and old and and frightened out of his wits, and all Richie can think is that he doesn’t want Eddie to _ever_ look this way again.

He had frozen, yes, and maybe that would’ve led to Richie’s death if Ben hadn’t stormed in to help Bill save the day, but Richie doesn’t have it in himself to be angry or upset. If it were anyone else he might feel tinges of betrayal, insignificance, abandonment. If it were anyone else he might storm out of the house with his middle fingers held high and go cry on the sidewalk until it’s time to become a snack for their friendly neighborhood eldritch deity. But it’d been _Eddie_ who froze in the chaos and it’s _Eddie_ who stands here, rigid with remorse, and he hadn’t hung back on purpose or because he didn’t care enough about Richie to act, he was just… _scared_. Same as Richie. Same as them all.

Eddie would’ve done something if he _believed_ he could’ve, if he’d never forgotten how much courage and power he truly possessed.

“That… that’s what It w-w-wants, right?” Bill deflates under Eddie’s distress, allowing Mike to urge him away. “Don’t—don’t give it to him.”

Eddie’s tears finally begin to spill over when he looks down at Richie once more. He’s still pressed against the wall and he’s nodding at Bill’s words, but Richie knows he’s nodding at him as well. His face says too much and too little, though Richie can’t really tell what his eyes are trying to convey. He only understands the plea for forgiveness hidden within the silence.

Richie wipes his chin inside the crook of his elbow and takes a shuddering breath. Ben and Beverly help him up onto his feet, where he only wobbles once, and when he offers Beverly a sheepish smile after using her blazer to wipe the rest of the gunk off his face she merely rubs his back with a nod and leaves the soiled garment behind in the dust.

“You good, Rich?” Ben inquires. Richie’s pretty sure it’s only because he’d failed to do so back at the library earlier. He’s grateful for the concern either way.

“Yeah, man. I, uh, I think so.” His awkward laugh turns into a wet cough. The only thing he can identify about the taste in his mouth is that it’s _not good_. “Can’t get any worse than that, right?”

“Don’t jinx it.”

“Molly, with all due respect, I’m pretty damn sure we’ve been jinxed our entire fucking lives. This town is literally cursed.”

“Co-Come on, guys. Enough s-st-stalling.”

They take the steps down to the basement carefully, one after the other after the other, each creak and groan adding to the foreboding atmosphere they’re bathed in. Ben spots the well that leads to the depths of what they’re all sure hell must resemble. 

“A lotta memories there. All bad,” he says, and none of them disagree.

Their method down is pretty much the same as last time. Richie can tell Eddie’s nervous about the rope being able to support his weight now that he’s relatively adult-sized, but his shame from what had transpired upstairs—seen from the tenseness of his shoulders, the deepness of his frown—stops him from voicing those concerns. A simple (lingering) pat between the shoulder blades from Richie is all it takes to reassure him on the descent and he smiles tentatively when he drops down beside him on wobbly legs, crawling closer to keep their arms pressed together, connecting where they can. It’s a comfort he’s not sure how much longer he’ll have.

The first thing Richie thinks when they enter into the tunnels is that he’s glad he never remembered what it smelled like down here because it is is _rank_ beyond belief.

“ _Ugh_ , man.”

“ _Bleh_ ,” Eddie gags in agreement, the light coming from the lamp he sticks on his head shaking sporadically when his feet hit the ground with a splash. “ _Greywater_.”

( _What the hell’s greywater?_

 _It’s basically piss and shit, so I’m just telling you_ _!_ _You’re splashin’ around in millions of gallons of Derry pee._ )

Their ankles and calves—which soon becomes thighs, then hips, then waists—slosh through icy water as they navigate the winding sewer maze as easy as if they’d never even left. Richie sticks close to Eddie, or maybe Eddie sticks close to him, and they keep the group tight without anyone managing to run off on their own. He thinks it’s a miracle up until they reach the entrance to It’s lair.

“ _Shit_ ,” Ben spits. “This is it. This is where it happened...”

There aren’t any floating dead kids in their immediate vicinity. No Pennywise, either. But the area is entirely flooded, submerging their chests, forcing them to wade through with careful steps while sidestepping souvenirs from past victims that bob and float. Eddie freaks out to the point of muttering _no, no, no_ while a Teddy Bear drifts by. Richie recalls the way Bill had clutched at Georgie’s little yellow raincoat and keeps moving with a gulp.

Their clothes feel like weights once they climb up out of the water and onto a jagged hill of junk. Richie’s got granules of dirt and who the fuck knows what else stuck on his hands and nowhere to wipe them that wouldn’t result in a bigger mess. He peeks at Eddie from over his shoulder when he feels a solid hand grip the back of his leg on the way up.

“Bev, what is it?” Ben whispers, causing Eddie to whip around so fast he bumps into Richie, who reaches out to keep him from slipping.

“I thought I heard someth—”

Her own frightened scream cuts off the rest of her sentence, echoing through the lair alongside the shrill laugh of whatever monster has just materialized in front of them. The saggy-titted, leathery-skinned old lady drags Bev beneath the surface with inhuman strength and speed. Ben shouts and ducks, and Bill and Mike dive, and Richie doesn’t hesitate— _It got Beverly, It got Beverly_ —to jump in after them, all the while thinking of what they’d done for him upstairs. He has no clue, now, how he’d ever considered leaving them.

It’s chaos in the murky depths, for the briefest of moments; screams rumbling through closed mouths, weak limbs flailing out in sluggish punches and kicks, four pairs of hands grabbing at Beverly to pull her away from the googly-eyed grandma. It disappears without any real struggle once someone yanks it away by a handful of scraggly hair, and when they’re kicking up and breaking through Richie’s ears tune into Eddie’s muffled pleas.

“— _don’t wanna walk outta here alone!_ ”

Oxygen is a drug the five of them greedily inhale. Six, if you count Eddie’s audible relief. They cough and pant and attempt to shake hair off their faces when their heads are finally fully above water, and Eddie babbles about how he feels like he’s gonna cry, which Richie doesn’t want to say he agrees with but feels internally regardless. He splashes his way over to Eddie’s legs when it becomes clear that Bev isn’t any worse for wear, combing some limp hair away from his forehead until it’s slicked back to the crown, and wades forward until he can stand at the base of the trash heap.

He receives a few hefty pats on the shoulder from Eddie once he’s near, a way of asking ‘ _are you okay?_ ’ without having to wonder aloud. Richie gives a short nod. His cracked glasses are sprinkled with quickly drying droplets, but everything else, including the state of his sensitive stomach, seems to be alright. That is, until Mike points to the very top top of the pile when he’s asked where they need to go next because _obviously_ none of this can ever be easy. A cynic like Richie should not have expected anything less, and yet he had.

It takes them a while to reach their destination. Eddie is very particular about where he touches on the way, not wanting to get poked or cut by anything rusty or sharp, so he slots himself behind Richie, practically breathing down his neck in noisy bursts, and follows the placements of Richie’s hands and feet to a T. It’s annoying, though only _slightly_ when he compares it to the chafing inside his wet pants that’s already begun.

But eventually they make it to the top, where there’s a hidden hatch that’s carved with strange shapes and symbols that they instinctively form a a circle around.

“Is he okay?” Ben whispers when Mike begins to mumble under his breath.

Richie’s seen and heard weirder shit today, but this is just unnerving.

“I think, at this point, that’s a really good question.”

Bev’s shivering fiercely while she asks, “What’s on the other side?”

“I don’t know. No one does,” Mike replies, and then he’s opening the damned thing and everyone’s jumping back—

There’s nothing there. Nothing but a long, rocky tunnel leading some place Richie can’t yet fathom.

“Alright,” he sighs. “See you down there.”

“What—”

“ _Mike_ —!”

He doesn’t stop and he doesn’t fall, just keeps going until he disappears into the pitch black. So, naturally, Bill takes that as their cue to follow.

“S-stay together,” he commands before he, too, slips into the abyss.

“You guys. I can’t do it,” Eddie chokes, panic fraying his resolve. “I _can’t_. You saw what happened, up there, I was—I was gonna let—I was gonna let you _die_. I just fuckin’ froze up!” He’s addressing the three of them, not looking at Richie directly for longer than a blink, but he knows, _he knows_ , this reluctance is something personal. “You let me go down there with you, I’m gonna get us _all_ killed.”

Eddie uncaps his inhaler with shaky hands and shoves it between his teeth for a long, anguished pull, the sight of which ignites a wildfire all throughout Richie’s body. He reaches out and grabs onto Eddie’s arm with an unyielding grip before another puff can be taken.

“Hey, _hey_. Gimme that! Gimme that—”

“Richie!”

“Let go, you little turd!”

“I just—I need to—”

_Hiss. Hiss._

Eddie opens his mouth like he can inhale the fake medicine he’d spritzed uselessly into the air. _Jesus Christ_. Richie yanks harder and brings his other arm up to shake the full beam of his flashlight directly into Eddie’s eyes.

“Ah—!”

“Stop!”

“ _Alright!_ ” Eddie snaps, chin jutted and jaw clenched. “I got it!”

Richie looks at him, wet and tense and scared, with a bloodied bandage taped to his cheek; _r_ _eally_ looks at him, in a way he hadn’t at the restaurant, hadn’t at the Town House, hadn’t in the library or in the room upstairs when they’d all been pissing themselves over a manifestation of It that had been plucked straight out of _The Thing_.

With a layer of insight Richie can only attribute to age, he looks at forty year old Eddie and sees the thirteen year old boy he used to be. The hyperactive little shit-starter. The hypochondriac complainer who yapped and yapped and held the biggest heart, however fast it beat, inside the tiniest body. The frightful kid in short-shorts and fanny packs, who threw rocks and cleaned injuries and laid all over Richie like their germs were sufficiently compatible or could cancel each other out. He was snarky and smart and sweet and caring and prickly like a fucking alley cat, and he was brave, deep down. Brave in a way that even the rest of them weren’t. Eddie never thought so himself, but he was.

He _is_.

Richie looks at forty year old Eddie and sees every inch of the person he’s turned into. And while he wishes he had been able to grow with him, to have gotten to relearn him over and over again for the last twenty-odd years instead of the last twenty-odd hours, Richie Tozier has _always_ known Eddie Kaspbrak. Nothing could ever have changed that.

“Listen to me,” he says low, stepping closer. He might be as serious as he’s ever been, so Eddie doesn’t hesitate to look him in the eye this time. “You had a moment, _fine._ But who killed a psychotic clown before he was fourteen?”

Eddie swallows. The steeply sloped angle of his brows is somehow the sincerest thing in the world.

“Me...”

“Who stabbed Bowers with a knife he pulled out of his own face?”

“Also me.”

“Who married a woman ten times his own body mass?”

Richie had apologized earlier for the things he’d implied about Eddie, his wife, and his mother, and of course he’d meant it. He’d been only half-joking when he’d said those things in the first place and it’d only been due to the bitterness he couldn’t wash out of his mouth. While that bitterness isn’t gone, it _has_ been pushed to the side by the overwhelming desire to show Eddie that he’s not what those looming figures in his life make him. That he’s so much _more._

He’s only half-joking as he dredges that topic up _now_ and it’s due to his desire to make Eddie see what Richie does.

There’s a long enough pause to get him thinking that Eddie will smack him away or brush him off for not knowing how to leave it be, like he’d asked. But he doesn’t. Instead, he steels himself and looks at Richie with an all-too familiar cocktail of emotions that Richie’s never been able to wholly identify.

“ _Me_ ,” he repeats with at least some semblance of confidence.

It _that_ confidence that fuels Richie’s own, allowing him to wrap a hand around one of Eddie’s anxious fists and hold it gently, thumb resting at the pulse in his wrist from over the top of a sleeve.

“Yeah,” he says softly, with more meaning than one word should ever be capable of holding.

Eddie nods because Richie nods. Then he looks down—to their joined hands, to the slippery ground beneath their feet—like maintaining eye contact is too much to handle right now. Richie understands, but he, himself, can’t look away. He drinks in all the details of Eddie’s face in this tiny blip of time:

Lips pressed together in their usual tight line, chin extended almost childishly, furrow between thick brows as prominent as the single dimple still visible on the non-bandaged cheek. Laughter lines around big eyes, too many creases on a pale forehead, long lashes that manage to cast shadows over sharp cheeks even in the darkness of where they’re currently standing.

Eddie is the most beautiful man Richie’s ever seen, the most beautiful _person_ , and Richie aches, terribly and incredibly, with that overbearing knowledge. It’s no wonder he’d always felt lovesick, even after Eddie became a niggling feeling rather than someone he could think about and remember, because _this_ is who and what his heart had decided to thrum for during those precious days of youth and _this_ is who and what his heart had called for every single day in the time that they were apart.

Richie drops the fist that’s begun to relax and reaches out to grip his shoulder, smiling with it all. He doesn’t dare ask himself what Eddie might notice when he glances up again.

“You’re braver than you think,” he says, positive that he’s never spoken anything more truthful.

“...Alright.” The expression Eddie allows across his face is _so_ , so soft. Nearly identical to the one Richie always dreamed would be meant exclusively for him, just on an older face in a different context. “Thanks, Richie.”

The urge to cup Eddie’s cheek is a strong one. Richie’s pretty sure Eddie would actually let him, at this point, and not even complain if his palm lingered longer than what would normally be considered appropriate for two friends who forgot each other for over half their lives. But they need to go and now isn’t the time ( _it’s never the time, Richie, you’re never gonna find the fucking time, you pussy_ ), so he pats Eddie’s cheek without thought. Not quite what he’d wanted to do but it’s still _good_.

Eddie flinches and Richie winces.

“ _Ow_ _!_ ”

“Sorry.”

He turns away and moves to crouch down by the hatch, sharing a nod with Ben before he climbs down. He’s about to follow when Beverly stops in front of Eddie with the fence post she’d picked up outside.

“Here, take it. It kills monsters.”

“Does it?”

Eddie’s dubious stare turns hopeful when she nods with conviction.

“Yeah. If you believe it does.”

Richie hopes she’s right.

His arms quake with effort by the time his feet touch solid ground below, palms sweaty and irritated from gripping jagged rocks for minutes on end. And if that isn’t enough then crawling through the smallest gap possible, between rock and more rock, is just the perfect syrup to pour all over this shit sundae. It’ll only get worse from here, he’s sure.

The cavern they emerge into is indescribable. Literally not of this world. Some sort of material juts out of the ground in several spear-shaped formations, looking like a rejected prototype of the Iron Throne. The surface is rugged, fragmented meteorite, but there’s a sheen to each piece and holes and shapes that are too organic to be man-made. It’s all very _Alien_. Richie hopes like hell that there’s aren’t any nasty egg sacks hanging around. He’d already gotten his face thoroughly hugged upstairs, thank you very much.

Eddie tripping over a _human skull_ is almost as bad as the scifi bullshit his brain keeps running through

( _...and, like, an old guy’s fuckin’ bones. Yeah!_ )

“Hey, Eddie. You think Pennywise has a roller-coaster down here? Or a pet chimp?”

He stares blankly for a whole three seconds—yes, Richie counts—before breaking out a tight grin that’s equal parts sour and fond. “I remember that. That’s when we were at Ben’s and you were talking about beavers and shit. Never did get Derry on _Unsolved Mysteries_.”

“I guess the whole ‘forced amnesia’ thing kinda blew all my plans out of the water. Could try for Buzzfeed—oh _holy shit._ ”

Is it possible for the ceiling to be as far away as the literal sky outside? It seems one-thousand stories up! Or maybe it looks that way due to the crack in his lens. If he peers through it just right everything gets all multiplied and distorted.

“So all this has been under Derry, like, _forever?_ ” Eddie wonders, amazed and mortified.

“Not forever. Just a few million years.” They’re led to the center of the strange structure, where Mike sets his ritual bucket down and looks up at them with unrestrained nervous energy. “It can only be attacked in its true form. The ritual will show us that.”

Ben sounds exhausted and wary when he asks, “And what _is_ It’s true form?”

“I hope it’s a puppy. A Pomeranian or—I’ll shut up.”

“It’s light,” Mike continues as if Richie had never said anything at all. “Light that must be snuffed out by darkness.” Richie’s gaze finds Eddie’s in the middle of those ominous words, drawn away only by the fire Mike lights in the bucket. “The artifacts. Place them in the fire. The past must burn with the present.”

Richie sighs at the reminder of his good ol’ trip down memory lane, at the token that rests substantially in his pocket. He pulls it out like everyone does with theirs, keeps it clutched tight while trying to recognize each object that’s been trailing behind the Losers their whole lives, starting with that summer.

“Uh, this is—” The pain in Bill’s voice is as fresh as ever. “This is the boat that I built with G-Georgie.”

“It’s, um… my inhaler.” Eddie looks at them. Not with tears in his eyes like Bill, but with a manic twitch to his expression. He inhales deeply from the mouthpiece and holds it, afraid to give in as much as he is to let go. They both know he doesn’t need it.

“Come on, dude.”

Eddie gulps at Richie’s prompting and tosses his inhaler into the flames. He can’t go back for it this time.

Beverly holds a crusted, creased thing. There’s a picture on the back that’s barely visible, though Richie thinks it might be the standpipe, and that’s when it clicks: a postcard, the same one he’d found in Ben’s backpack at the quarry.

( _January Embers_ were the first words Bev had uttered after Ben pulled her from the trance of the Deadlights with a last-ditch smooth. _My heart burns there too._ )

“Something that I wish I had… held onto.”

Ben lingers on Beverly even after she tosses it in, pausing before smoothing out a rumpled page he’d just unfolded.

“Uh, this is a page from my yearbook. Only one person signed. And I probably should’ve forgotten it, but I couldn’t ‘cause… I kept it in my wallet. For twenty-seven years.”

Beverly catches his eye and he smiles, embarrassed by the total transparency of his admission and the fact that she clearly understands.

Richie does, too. That deep-seated _yearning_. The way it haunts and ruins and fuels.

His heart jumps into his throat as he wonders what would’ve happened if he’d held onto something of Eddie’s; a crude note from class, a stray tube sock, those colorful band-aids he’d stash in Richie’s backpack because he couldn’t go a day without scraping something, the mushy mixtape he’d made and never gifted. Could Richie have remembered the feeling of Eddie better? Would the sight of something so mysterious and simple have given him sparks of hope where the black emptiness of nothing had otherwise sucked him dry?

During the fleeting moments he’d allowed himself to ponder his feelings for Eddie, he’d always thought they were akin to Bill’s feelings for Beverly. Calm and cool and handled with care, tucked away nicely instead of on obvious display. But no, he’d been like Ben the entire time. Pining, yearning, holding onto a pitiful teenage dream his entire life because he wanted nothing more than for it to become a reality.

 _Fuck_ , that’s a hard pill to swallow. He doesn’t even have anything to help wash it down. He licks his lips and unfurls his fingers from around his “sacrifice.”

“This is a token from The Capitol Theatre,” he says shortly. It’s enough of an explanation, he thinks, because it’s no secret how much time Richie Tozier spent at the arcade. What _is_ a secret is why the thing that reads _No Cash Value_ means anything else.

Heads: the boy who liked video games. Tails: the boy who liked other boys.

He’s glad to toss it away, to be rid of that burdensome memory.

“You brought an actual token?” Eddie inquires, and Richie sighs because there’s no way he’s doing this right now. Not with him, of all people.

“Yeah, man. That’s what you’re supposed to do, _asshole_.”

“Do you have any idea how long that’s gonna take to burn?”

“Yeah, but so is your inhaler, dude.”

“Guys, come on—” Ben tries.

“With the toxic fumes and the plastic and shit? So...”

Eddie holds his tongue, miraculously, but the stubborn jut of his jaw makes Richie feel like he’d gotten the last word anyhow.

Mike presents his artifact next. A rock. Richie knows exactly where it came from and doesn’t have to guess about what it means.

( _Go blow your dad you mullet wearing asshole!_ )

“Look closely, Bev. You see it?” A bloodstain is visible in the firelight. “That’s where you hit Bowers.”

“Rock fight,” she laughs, breathless. Like she can still feel the exhilaration of fighting back.

“The day these bonds were forged.”

“That’s not gonna burn either,” Eddie whispers, as annoying and endearing as he usually. Then, suddenly, he sucks in a surprised breath and digs into his pocket. “Oh, wait—” Richie’s throat constricts when the shower cap comes into view. “Can’t forget about Stan. Again.”

Richie grabs hold of it before Eddie can drop it in the flames alongside Mike’s rock. The questioning look Eddie sends him is smoothed away by the feel of Richie’s fingertips grazing his beneath the fabric, an accident that goes uncorrected.

“Come on, guys. For Stan.”

None of them know if their friend is still hanging on in a hospital somewhere of if he’s already dead and buried. They just know he’s with them in spirit, here and now, wherever else his body might. Bill, Mike, Bev, and Ben press into into the spaces between Richie’s and Eddie’s to clutch at the crinkly fabric in a moment of reflection and hope. Something prickles inside Richie’s chest. _Lucky seven_.

They drop it in as one.

“The Ritual of Chüd, it’s a battle of wills,” Mike explains while they join hands, palm-to-palm. “The first step was our reunion. The second was gathering the tokens. This is the final step.”

The fire peters out as if on cue and the long-ass ceiling begins to part, revealing a passage that reminds Richie of a convulsing throat that’s lined with millions of shark teeth, and then there’s light everywhere and it’s so _bright_ —

“What the f-f-fuck is that?”

“Don’t look at it!”

“Are those the Deadlights?!”

“ _Don’t look at it!_ ”

“Okay!” Eddie jolts, obeying by shutting his eyes. Richie does the same.

“Turn light into dark. Turn light into— _say it!_ ”

 _“_ _Turn light into dark. Turn light into dark. Turn light into dark._ _”_ Over and over and over again, spoken into the world by five loud voices as Mike rattles off words that Richie can’t even begin to comprehend. A strong gust of wind and an even stronger gust of heat bares down on them, making Richie’s eyes burn ever so slightly behind his lids.

“Turn light into dark!” It almost feels like all the air is getting sucked out of him. “Mike, what’s happenin’, man?”

“Keep chanting!”

They do, voices growing increasingly erratic as they struggle to hear themselves over the reverberation of whatever’s dropping down between them. But then the circle breaks and the light dims, and the sound of Mike slamming the lid down onto his ritualistic basket-slash-bucket turns everything deathly silent.

Well, everything except Eddie.

“Turn light into dark, turn light into dark—Is it working? Did we do it?”

As if presenting itself as an answer, a red balloon begins to stretch out of the opening, too strong for Mike to bear down on.

“Guys,” Beverly breathes. “Is this—is this part of it?”

Richie gapes. “Mike, is that supposed to be happening?”

They’re told to keep chanting and so Bill does, and Eddie, and Richie tries, but Ben and Beverly stare with unrestrained horror as the balloon grows and grows and grows, forcing them into a scramble away.

Eddie slams against one of the crooked fragments surrounding them, bathed in neon red and gripping the metal fence post tight, a distant sort of fear contorting his expression. And Richie shouts for him like he always does, hoping his fear for Eddie’s safety might freeze everything in place and give him a chance to move Eddie away, but it does no such thing.

The balloon grows large enough to realistically crush them against the alien formation they’d been crowding within, so they force themselves through gaps and holes to scatter, not a second too late. The inevitable _POP_ sounds more like a giant, earth-shattering bang, and then it sounds like nothing but an ear-piercing ring inside his eardrums. Richie falls hard onto his knees and then onto his side, completely disoriented for several gut-clenching seconds.

It feels like he’s under water at first, with everything slow and muted, almost as if he’s paddling his way up to the surface where it’ll all clear out. When he gets his legs back underneath himself he starts to hear voices, murmurs, and he finds Bill in the effort to stay upright, knowing that if Bill’s okay then he is too.

“Guys?” Eddie is the first to break through clearly as he stumbles upon them, using his flashlight to check them over. He’s asking where Mike is when the man in jogs over and nearly collapses.

“Did we do it? Did—Did we do it?”

“With the tokens and the thing? That’s good, right?”

“We did it, right?”

Richie and Eddie’s voices carry over each other in quick succession. It almost feels normal, until they hear a startled yelp. All hope vanishes when he spots yellow eyes and a mad grin peering down on them, a terrible giggle trapping them in place.

“ _Oooh_ , did it work, Mikey?” Pennywise jeers. “ _Did it work?_ ”

A flash of Memorial Park. Dirty little secret. Twenty-Nine Neibolt Street. A claw ripping through a white glove. _Get Eddie, let’s go!_

“Tell them _why_ your _silly little ritual_ didn’t work. Tell them it’s all just, uh, what’s the word, Eds? _Gazebo?_ ”

“Mike?” Eddie sounds so small, brought back to the trauma he’d never had the chance to escape. When Richie turns to him, he’s nothing short of stricken. “What’s he talking about?”

“M-M-M-Mikey?”

“Oh, Mikey, you never showed them the fourth side, did you? _Ahahahaha!_ ”

The fourth side. The scribbled carving. The reason why Mike had snatched it away before Richie could think too hard about it…

“Didn’t want them to know what _actually_ happened to the poor Shokopiwah! Omnomnom, yum yum!”

“ _Fuck_ , Mikey! You lied to us again?” Bill yells wetly.

Richie feels as if his guts have just spilled onto the floor. It fucking _can’t_ be. _No_. He hadn’t anticipated coming out of this alive, but now it seems like there’d never been any hope to begin with. Not a chance. There worse off than they were the last time, like this. A member down. Shaken to the core. Exhausted and raw from a lifetime of lived in fraud.

The remains of Mike’s barely-there facade crumbles entirely.

“They didn’t—they didn’t, they didn’t _believe!_ They didn’t believe they could kill him! That’s why it didn’t work back then!”

“Are you fucking _kidding me_ , Mike!?” Richie bellows. Oh, they didn’t _believe?_ That’s all? “ _Fuck!_ ”

They’re all down here, cornered, and they’re gonna die and it’s such a strong betrayal, that Mike would do this to them—put them all in danger, put _Eddie_ in danger, when maybe they could have found another way.

Richie’s never going to get out of here. He’s never going to mend his broken life until it resembles something worth living. Never going to relieve himself of the shackles that his secrets have become. Never going _feel_ anything again, like hes just another kid on a milk carton or a missing poster. No one will even care.

“Fuck you, Mikey!” Bill’s voice breaks so badly it twists most of Richie’s overwhelming anger into a fresh wave of pain and terror.

“I needed something! Anything, _anything_ for us to remember! Anything for us to believe!”

“Fuck!”

Pennywise cackles and Richie remembers what Bill had said about being scared ( _don’t give it to him_ ), but it’s not that simple. Human emotion never is. Which is why Richie’s always avoided being anything other than the Funny Guy, the Class Clown, the Trashmouth. Why he’s never told anyone what he goes through or how deeply he feels. Because shit like this winds up hurting the worst.

Three spheres of light, blinding in their intensity, fly out of the container to circle high above, somewhere within that never-ending ceiling.

“It’s the Deadlights!” Bev shouts with wretched certainty. “Don’t look at them!”

Richie can see the glow even behind his lids, so he keeps his eyes open but low because Pennywise stomps out of hiding and—oh, _Jesus_ _._

Pointy spider legs. Crab-like claws. Demonic clown head. Freaking _humungous_ overall.

“For twenty-seven years, I dreamt of you,” It crows delightedly. Richie presses his arm against Eddie’s, restraining himself from grabbing onto him. “I _craved_ you. Oh, I _missed_ you!” They disperse when It stomps to stand before them in full terrifying glory. Richie slides away first, Eddie hot on his heels, bumping into each other when Ben and Bev draw near. Bill takes cover behind a half-wall of stone. Mike doesn’t move an inch. “Waiting for _this_ very moment!”

“You gotta move, Mikey!” Bill tries as they all begin to plead with Mike to follow, to run, but he doesn’t listen.

“I’m sorry, guys.” The apology crackles through a broken voice. “I’m sorry. _I’m so sorry_.”

 _Not Mikey._ Richie’s pissed at him for lying because _this?_ _Fuck_ this! But not Mikey. Not Stan. Not anyone.

Pennywise rears up, a claw forming through a stump of several tiny wiggling hands, and Richie pleads with Mike to _come on_ , just _come on_ , the back of his hand pressing into Eddie’s shoulder. Bill rams into Mike when Pennywise swings, and then they’re running yet again.

Chunks of debris shoot up around them on each swipe of It’s massive arm. They dodge as best they can, looking back to make sure no one’s been hit. Those sharp legs slam down between their weaving bodies in a wave that knocks them off balance and forces them to separate.

Richie heads towards a narrow tunnel and even though his lungs are burning with the need to breathe he still slumps in immense relief when Eddie crashes into him, the two having veered off the same way, tied together by an invisible rope. He doesn’t see Mike or Ben or Bev when he turns, but he _does_ spot Bill diving through an opening just as Pennywise chomps onto the ledge.

“Oh, _shit!”_ Eddie hisses beside him when that bulbous head swivels toward where they stand.

“Uh—can he see us?”

And _yep_ , oh yeah, _oh_ fuck.

Their screams mingle in grating harmony as they fly down the corridor with Pennywise’s wiggling arm chasing after them, extending on and on like a demented version of Mr. Fantastic. It comes to a stop just a few feet behind where they’re forced to a standstill, their path suddenly blocked by—

Three doors labeled with gravity-defying blood. Richie’s jaw slackens.

_Very Scary. Scary. Not Scary At All._

The beams of their flashlights shine over each label.

“Goddammit!”

“Uh…”

“Ah, right. _Not Scary At All_ , right?”

Eddie surges forward. Richie grabs his arm, cluing in on the trick.

“No! _Nononononono_. They’re—they’re switched!”

“Wait, what?”

Richie’s hand slides from bony elbow to sinewy forearm. Eddie’s hooded jacket, still damp from their earlier swim, is surprisingly soft and warm despite the grimy texture.

“He’s fucking with us!”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me!”

“Positive?”

“Yes!”

“Okay!”

He feels momentarily empty when he lets Eddie’s arm go in favor of grabbing the knob to the _Very Scary_ door and slowly easing it open. There’s total darkness and a faint whisper of “ _where’s my shoe?_ ”

He’s heard _that_ one before. Gingerly, Richie grips onto the chain dangling in front of his face, a light clicking on when he pulls it to reveal…

A closet. A _closet_. That’s all he sees. A bad joke that’s gone on too long. _Pennywise is really hammering this one into the ground_ , Richie thinks, and he nearly turns to ask Eddie if he’s seeing this shit too, or if there’s something else for him—which, of course it _would_ be something else, right? For Eddie? Unless the clown really _is_ trying to give away all of Richie’s—

There are fucking _legs_ skipping in their direction! _Legs!_ With _no torso!_

( _Where the fuck were her legs?!_

 _How do you amputate a waist?!_ )

“You told me to trust you!” Eddie accuses as Richie slams the door. They stumble back and then forward when the wormy arm gets too close.

“He’s _not_ fucking with us!” Richie concludes. “Let’s go to _Not Scary At All!_ ”

“Okay…” Eddie sounds unexpectedly calm, considering the circumstances, and even takes hold of the next doorknob himself, albeit very, very carefully.

They’re presented with a seemingly empty passageway.

“It’s alright,” Eddie whispers. “Let’s go.”

And they start to, except when their lights cast downward they spot a dog—a _puppy_ , a _Pomeranian_ —staring up at them with a deceptively sweet fluffy face.

Richie and Eddie freeze in the doorway at once, squeezing in next to each other tight, wearing matching dumbfounded expressions.

“Oh, _shit._ ”

“No way am I falling for this shit again.”

“Oh yeah, that thing’s a fuckin’ monster.”

“Richie. Make it sit.”

“I know your moves, you little bitch—”

“ _Richie,_ ” Eddie repeats, more urgently now. He’s turned away from the dog to check back the way they came. “It’s gone, man.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Wait—”

“Okay.” They can do this. Probably. He sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly, and with a pointed finger, he commands: “ _Sit._ ”

The little furball listens, which is _adorable_ and bizarrely baffling. He hadn’t expected it to work.

“He did it!” Eddie says through a grin that’s almost as precious as the pooch resting at their feet.

“That’s cute.”

“That’s a good boy!”

“That’s actually super cute.”

“ _That’s a good boy!_ ”

He’d never given much thought to how Eddie felt about animals and definitely never assumed him to be a fan, for numerous reasons, namely: dander, shedding, drooling, piss and shit contaminating the air, rabies, bacteria that could enter your bloodstream through a _scratch_ , germs, allergens, etc. Outside of the few fluffy beasts on Mike’s farm, which Eddie usually steered very clear of, Bill had been the only one of them to have a pet. Hamsters that Eddie liked to look at from afar but avoided like the plague he was _certain_ they carried whenever they stopped off at the Denbrough residence.

Perhaps he liked the more conventional creatures, like dogs and cats. He’s definitely staring down at the tiny puppy with stars in his eyes, now, and wearing the most adorable smile in the entire fucking _galaxy_. Maybe Richie should look into getting a mutt of his own. Get Eddie attached while he can and then use the little cutiepie as a way to blackmail Eddie into visiting after he fucks off back to his wife. If they even remember, after all this is over. If they even make it out alive.

He hates how hearing their embarrassing coos mingling together makes the butterflies settling in his tummy swarm. Like this is some kind of daydream where they become embarrassing pet parents who treat their animals like babies they gave literal birth to. This is literally the worst moment to have those type of thoughts, but he’d like that, he really—

_Thedogisamonster._

It’s ugly and mangy and contorted, shooting up taller than they are, with nasty jagged teeth tha are ready to dig right in. And yes, Richie’s scream is higher-pitched than Eddie’s. Today is just not his day. Fucking sue him.

They slam the door and book it in the opposite direction, deciding to quit the game while they’ve still got heads.

“ _Shit!_ Yo, next time we just go with regular scary!”

Richie’s eyes practically pop out of his head.

“ _Next time?_ ”

They have no choice but to go all the way out into the open where Pennywise can freely stomp and crawl, but Richie hopes that he and Eddie can at least meet back up with the others before any more shit decides to hit the fan. They need to regroup, make a new plan now that Mike’s whole deal was a bust, then get the fuck out of here so they can shower in scalding water and sleep for a billion years. And geez, Richie is _starving_. It’s been a hours since the restaurant and he’d already lost what little of it had been left in his stomach when he vomited at the library.

“I know what _you_ are…” Richie skids to a stop below the archway just in time to see Pennywise wrap a spindly arm around Mike’s body, mimicking a boa constrictor. “A madman.” The barbed jaw unhinges, ready to consume. _Not Mike_ _,_ he thinks again, even as he registers the fact that Eddie is no longer beside him. _Not anyone._

Richie does the only thing he can think of in such a time of crisis.

_Rock war._

“Hey, fuckface!” he calls once he hits his mark. It flings Mike away just how he’d hoped. “You wanna play truth or dare? Here’s a truth: _you’re a sloppy bitch!_ Yeah, that’s right! Let’s dance! Yippee Ki Yay, motherfu—”

A deafening boom vibrates through his very being, rattling his bones like glass. His vision blackens, taste-buds tangy with copper, skull shrinking around his throbbing brain. His body slumps, weightless and lifeless, tied to strings he can’t unbind. And then there is no _body_ anymore because there is no _self_ _._ Only pain, so much pain, and eternal suffering. A backdrop so absolutely silent it could drive you to insanity, yet so loud, with heart-wrenching sobs and bloodcurdling screams and thousands of voices mixing into a a crescendo of everything awful in all imaginable universes, that it makes you wish for even the most gruesome of deaths.

There are too many scenes to focus on, images flashing by so quickly in a three-sixty view that they become incomprehensible. But there are flickers that stand out ( _a_ _domed shape_ _,_ _solid_ _and misshapen,_ _swimming_ _in a sea of stars, ripples of galaxies floating through countless sets of sullen, beady eyes_ ). Mere seconds of possibilities that take years upon years to sort through.

Stanley, slitting his wrists in the bathtub, tiles speckled with blood and two streaked letters, body gone cold by the time his wife begins searching the house. Stanley, waking up in a hospital bed, hugging his wife, hearing something on the phone, hoarding pills to swallow all at once. Stanley, walking down the street, whistling and watching the birds fly overhead, suddenly flattened by an out of control vehicle.

Bill, at home, a faded photo fluttering to the floor, hanging himself in the basement where his wife won’t find him until he’s stiff and ashy. Bill, distracting Pennywise, offering his life to save the others, his head ripped clean off by a gaping maw. Bill, leading everyone to an exit, crushed by falling debris in the cistern, a muddy shoe the only thing left behind.

Beverly, strangled by the husband she can’t escape, lips tinted blue, bright hair reflecting dully in the surface of Tom’s wedding band. Beverly, torn from Ben’s grasp, body shattering audibly when It swings her into the air and allows her to drop back down with a fatal crunch. Beverly, helping what’s left of her friends own their fears, the soft flesh of her neck pierced by a spiked claw she’s too slow dodge.

Ben, fighting off the rapid shifting form of It as the others flee, torso ripped open with one swooping swipe, a whisper of a name dying on his tongue. Ben, grabbed from behind as he shields his friends, squeezed and crushed until blood gushes through his torn skin, tossed to the quaking ground like a doll. Ben, drunk off his ass in some bar in the middle of nowhere, stabbed in the chest while trying to break up a dispute, bleeding out before an ambulance can arrive.

Mike, wasting away in Derry, all alone, death collecting his soul long before his heart gives out. Mike, on the edge of a cliff that overlooks the ocean, jumping off to land in the water and never resurfacing. Mike, walking to his car at night, shot three times by someone who’d only cared about his wallet and keys, left alone to bleed out.

Richie, out of his mind with grief, choking on his own vomit, no one finding his body for two whole days. Richie, racing down the highway in a new car, entranced by painful memories, thrown through the windshield after a semi plows into the rear. Richie, sad and old, brain deteriorating day by day, losing a battle with pneumonia.

Eddie, smiling in Richie’s face, impaled through the chest, passing on with only a dirty jacket to comfort him in those final moments. Eddie, back to his life in New York, drowning his pain with dangerous medication, not waking from an operation that was meant to repair the liver he damaged. Eddie, standing brave for his friends, arm torn off in a bloody mess while protecting them, his last words stolen by a wheezy breath.

Eddie, hit by a car. Eddie, stabbed in the park. Eddie, having a heart attack. Eddie, dying of old age. Eddie, leaving Richie behind and never looking back.

He feels everything and nothing, suspended like this, existing in a vacuum. He feels beyond the limits of age but also like he’s yet to be born. He feels his own mind expand, running for miles and miles, his heart jack-hammering helplessly inside a beautiful damaged box, wrapped in newspaper comics with steel blades warping and melting into serrated bows. There’s a tear in one corner—of this plane of existence, this would-be grave—where golden sunlight shines through, spotlighting the lone dust particle that Richie’s sure he has become. And the ghostly silence, the horrific symphony forged by an unwilling orchestra, winds down into a dull roar, until it is snuffed out entirely by the warmth and bustle of natural life.

Pain blooms through his body—he’s got one again, complete with throbbing joints, annoying muscle spasms, a massive migraine, and a congested nose—and his lungs are aching the way they used to whenever he’d test how long he could hold his breath underwater. The clouds in his eyes dissipate, ripped apart like chunks of cotton candy that float away in a chilly breeze. Everything is dark, as opposed to the blinding brightness of before, but he can _hear_ _,_ things like inhuman screeching and his own pulse fluttering beneath his skin. The feeling of being dazed increases tenfold when he hears a voice that warms his weary soul.

“Rich! Ah— _Rich!_ ”

A body lowers above his own, two knees bracketing one of his thighs. Insistent hands claw at his shoulders. Richie blinks away the fog and stares up at one Eddie Kaspbrak, tender and pleased, leaning just inches from Richie Tozier’s face.

“Hey, Richie, wake up! Hey!”

Eddie Kaspbrak. Richie’s first love. His only love.

He gasps and gawks. He’s _seen_ this already, hasn’t he? Doesn’t know how long ago, the image isn’t clear, but he knows _this._ Knows it isn’t good. Isn’t safe.

“Yeah, yeah! There he is, buddy! Hey, Richie, _listen_ —”

Eddie’s hands dig into Richie’s shoulders and hold on tight. He’s trying to listen like Eddie wants but his emotions are fried and he can’t decide if he’s terrified over the things he saw or fucking elated to have Eddie so precious and near. He should move them or tuck the smaller man into his arms, at least; shield him from something wicked he senses. He licks his dry lips instead, arm reaching up with a burning desire to touch, to _feel_ , and he stares into Eddie’s eyes in a way he’s never, ever dared. Richie tumbles into their depths instantly.

“I think I got it, man. I think I killed It! I did! I think I killed it for rea—”

Eddie jolts. Something wet splatters across the whole front of Richie’s body, the heat of it on his cheek making him flinch. There’s a spike near his chin, when he blinks, and it takes him a second to realize that it’s sticking out of Eddie’s _chest_ —

Beverly wails from somewhere close by. Richie’s throat burns as if he’d made the sound himself.

He’s paralyzed, with Eddie’s name tumbling through lips that are damp with more than saliva, but Eddie’s mouth is worse, painted dark red with globs of it dripping out in thick strings. 

“ _Ri-chie_ _…_ _”_

His voice is childlike. Frightened. Shocked. Richie _had_ seen this in the Deadlights, a vision come to pass. The worst fear he could ever have imagined, and so he never did.

( _Eddie, look at me. Look at me!_ )

Pennywise always knew.

“ _Richie_ _.._ _._ ”

He can’t think of what to do, how to stop this, how to help. Eddie’s begging him, but he can’t _move_ —

Eddie is ripped away from Richie with a jarring shout, blood splattering in a trail beneath his hovering form, and all Richie can do is watch and tremble as Bill cries out across the cave in utter despair.

“ _Eddie_ ,” Richie chokes when the man he loves with all his heart is flung through the air like a rag doll, rolling down a rough slope until he disappears down into the unforgiving darkness.

He wills his legs to hold his weight long enough for him to join the others in a race to get to Eddie down the rocky steps, everything else be damned. And when they get there and they try to roll Eddie over as delicately as possible… the _blood_ , it won’t _stop_. Keeps flowing—too fast, too much—through Eddie’s mouth, through the squelching wound puncturing his torso.

Richie can’t process it. He can’t dwell. The only thing he _can_ do is shrug his leather jacket off drop to a crouch to hold it against Eddie’s chest with as much pressure as he can muster, keeping steady even as Eddie’s distressed moans threaten to undo him at the seams.

“He’s hurt, he’s hurt really bad.” The words are his, though he doesn’t feel himself speaking them. “We gotta—we gotta get him outta here.”

“How’re we supposed to do that, Richie?”

Beverly’s objectively right, of course, they’re trapped down here like rats in a maze, but Richie’s mind works a mile a minute trying to figure out a path. Eddie needs help, so they _need_ to help him. They _have_ to.

“I… I almost killed it.” His breaths are shallow and moist. Richie doesn’t know if he winces. He can’t feel it if he does. “The leper….” Eddie’s arm sways. “My hands’re around his throat. I—I could… feel him choking. I made him small. He seemed so weak. He seemed… he seemed so _weak…_ ”

That’s one thing Eddie isn’t and has _never_ been. _Weak_. He’s so fucking strong, in fact, and Richie feels a sense of sorrowful pride wash through him as he watches every inch of his sallow face, though he has no clue what to do with it.

 _You’re braver than you think_ , he’d sworn, and look where it had gotten them.

“The Shokopiwah,” Mike realizes, spurred by Eddie’s revelation. “All living things must abide by the laws of the shape they inhabit!”

Richie presses onto the gaping wound with more force. Eddie doesn’t complain, which doesn’t seem like a good sign.

“Guys!” Ben ducks into view, pointing toward where he just came from. “There’s a passageway through here!”

“The tunnel!” Bev’s teary eyes widen. “Pennywise has to make himself small to get through the entrance of the cavern, right? If we can get back there, we can force him down to size. Me make him small, small enough so we can kill him!”

The creases on Eddie’s forehead smooth away slightly, once he hears that, like having a plan placates his worries. The little hole they’re hiding in shakes under the tantrum It throws at the entrance.

“I can smell the stink of your fear!” Pennywise roars. Beverly and Mike take that as their cue to file through Ben’s narrow discovery. Richie has no plans of following, not until he’s sure it’s safe for Eddie to be carried out. He’s never been patient and time means a whole heck of a lot right now, but he buckles down and waits because he must.

He’s grateful for Bill’s help in dragging Eddie over to a wall they can lower him to sit against, desperate to give him even a sliver of comfort. “I need a little rest,” he murmurs on the way down, justifying his actions as usual. It’s so normal that Richie forgets the state he’s in until he thanks them with a sticky cough.

“ _Eddie._ Eds, I’m s-s-so sorry, so sorry—”

“Shut up, Bill. I, _ah_ —I knew… knew the risks.”

“I’m still—I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. That you’re—that you ev-even—”

“Yeah… yeah, me too.”

Richie keeps his eyes on Eddie, ignoring Bill’s gaze when it lands on the side of his face for a hefty moment. He sees Bill’s hand smooth over Eddie’s hair, gently pushing some of the sweaty strands off of his ashen forehead. A string of hissed groans sends Bill off to join the others.

“Eddie,” Richie whispers once they’re alone, at a loss for what else to say.

“Hey, Richie… I gotta tell you somethin’.”

He plops down in front of Eddie immediately and leans in close, heart leaping into his throat, ears straining to hear what Eddie’s so determined to say. Part of him is selfish and hopes for the three little words he’d never had the balls to outright say. Even if they don’t mean what Richie wants them to mean, even if they’re said in pity or placation or delirium, he wants to hear them. He wants to _say_ them because, fuck, is Eddie _dying?_ They need to get him out of here _now._ What is Richie supposed to do if Eddie—

No. Don’t think about that. The scenarios in the Deadlights, they don’t always have to come to pass. They can fix this. There’s still _time_ —

“What? What’s up, buddy?”

Eddie doesn’t look at him for a moment, his eyes—crushed velvet, melted chocolate—are shiny and fixed on something far away, beyond what is physically in their vicinity. He swallows down some of his own blood without cringing and sets his jaw as he soundlessly chooses what words to say. Something serious flickers across his face, but whatever that feeling is it gets shuttered soon after, his expression slackening minutely.

Then he meets Richie’s stare, sad but sure, and his lips move and he says:

“I fucked your mother.”

Richie doesn’t laugh. He _should_ , it’s his own joke, but he doesn’t laugh. Not this time. Not even when Eddie bursts into light, staccato giggles.

It’s not funny the way it used to be. Maybe it was never really funny at all, save for the indignant reactions those comments would always produce; the way he’d call Richie names, push and kick, screech in his ear to _take it bac_ _k, asshole!_ Eddie had been a Mama’s Boy (by design, not default) and it had always brought Richie great satisfaction to spar with him about it. 

Maybe Richie’s too old, too tired, too lost to enjoy things of the past that he can’t have in the present or future. But he appreciates the attempt for what it is. Eddie is telling him that he remembers how they used to be, when they bickered and poked and understood intrinsically that they were made of the same starchy cloth even despite all the differences in pattern, that they were two halves of the same whole. This is Eddie telling him that their bond was, is, and always will be special, regardless of all the things that tried to tear them apart.

He keeps quiet as he settles in these emotions and helps Eddie lean back a little more, using one arm to press down onto Eddie’s shoulder and the other to keep pressure on the wound as he tries to ignore how pale Eddie has become.

Two trembling hands rise to clutch at the jacket draped across his middle. Richie feels fingers rest against his fist and he thinks it’s an accident at first or that Eddie can’t feel what he’s touching, but then those fingers curl to hold onto Richie’s with feeble purpose. Richie brushes his knuckles against Eddie’s palm to let him know he’s there.

“Richie…”

“Yeah, Eds?”

“Don’t… don’t call me that. Not…”

“What? Why? Everyone calls you that. We’ve always—”

“Yeah, but… makes me feel weird, when _you_ do it. Makes me feel—” He takes a second to breathe, which, Richie notes, seems increasingly difficult. “S’not _our_ thing."

“You want to me to make fun of you right now? Call you asshat or dickweed or—”

“ _Y_ _es_. Fuckwad.”

Richie’s smile hurts.

“I think you have some kind of weird degradation kink, man. It’s cool, though. Totally not as weird as some of the shit I’ve learned in L.A—”

“Rich.”

“Yeah?”

Eddie squeezes his hand.

“Talk to me.”

“Thought that’s what I’ve been doing.” His throat feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. “Keep up, dude. And that’s a first, actually. Usually people are telling me _not_ to talk to them.”

“I’m a fuckin’ idiot, I guess. Always liked… always liked t’hear you. Your laugh. Sounds like… a donkey. S’fuckin _stupid_. Wanna hear it. S’why I… I…”

“That’s why you fucked my _mother?_ ”

“Hmm.” Eddie’s mouth falls open when a cough rattles his body. His teeth are stained red. Richie tries really, really hard not to cry. “ _Laugh_ , Richie. Jackass. Please.”

“I can’t,” he says, thick and reedy. “I _can’t_. Not right now, Eddie. I—”

“Hey. Hey. S’okay.”

Eddie’s eyelids start to droop. Richie rubs his shoulder, leans up onto his knees so he can hunch down and press his forehead against the top of Eddie’s head. He doesn’t smell like lavender anymore, just metal and stale water and sweat and earth.

“Remember when we were fifteen?” he asks, hoping to keep Eddie awake. It is still trying to carve into their space, disturbing the depressing scenery around them, causing pebbles to break off from the ceiling and pelt Richie’s back. The others better hurry the fuck up with whatever it is they’re trying to do. They might get buried down here, otherwise. “I just thought about this. Just now. We were fifteen and Bev and Bill were already gone, and Ben, he’d just moved too, so it was me, you, Mike, and Stan. Some club, huh?”

**~*~**

It’s July of 1991. Stan’s too busy to socialize and Mike’s been taking on more responsibilities at home. Two people hanging out inside the clubhouse or down at the quarry feels overly depressing, so Richie and Eddie decided to set up camp in the Tozier’s backyard.

Mrs. K had thrown a fit when she’d answered Richie’s incessant knocking earlier that day, telling him in a multitude of ways to _leave_ _Eddie alone_ , but Eddie had hopped down the stairs as if drawn into the room by the sound of Richie’s voice and he’d rushed out the door with Richie’s wrist in hand, shouting “see ya, mommy!” even as she howled after him.

Eddie still wore his dorky fanny packs and he still took dubious pills at specific times every day and he still puffed on an inhaler that was nothing more than water and camphor, but everything was kept in moderation. And he’d been going through a rebellious phase of sorts, now that they were heading into eleventh grade. Not Richie’s level of rebellion, of course; Eddie wasn’t mouthing off in class, wasn’t stealing supplies from the chemistry lab to conduct unauthorized experiments, wasn’t getting detentions for breaking into vending machines or scribbling over graffiti that called him rude names. Instead, Eddie had started bargaining with his mother whenever she tried to reassert her iron grip on him at home; he’d started ducking out of Home Room after attendance was taken so he could hang out with Richie under the stairwell; he’d started snarking at anyone who’d dared make fun of Richie or Stan when they’d huddled together at lunch, and especially whenever anyone said anything bad about Mike because he wasn’t around to defend himself.

Richie supposed it was also rebellious of Eddie to continue to wear those tiny fucking red shorts even after he got made fun of for using them at his age. _Girly boy_ , the latest bullies would call him, and Eddie would clench his fists but keep his head down. Richie, for his part, just about had a stroke anytime Eddie draped those tanned, bare legs across his lap.

The _point_ is that it’s just the two of them today, and that Eddie’s feeling particularly rowdy, and that Richie’s feeling particularly blue.

Ben stopped calling a month ago, just like Bill and Bev before. They’d talked about trying to meet up during the summer because Ben wasn’t moving that far away and his mom had promised to drive Ben to Bar Harbor if everyone else could find their own way, but he hasn’t called in a month and Richie knows they won’t be hearing from him again. He’s just the latest to leave them behind.

Eddie can’t stay still. He keeps wiggling around on the old blanket Richie splayed out on the ground so Eddie wouldn’t get itchy and sneezy from laying on top of his backyard’s too-brown lawn while they gazed up at lazily drifting clouds. Eddie sees a lot of shapes in the fluffy masses: a unicorn, Mr. Potato Head, E.T, one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the Delorean from _Back to the Future_. Richie sees a dinosaur, a zombie hand, a bottle, a _heart_. Outwardly he claims to only see his wang and Eddie’s mom’s bra. Eddie kicks and yells, and Richie merely grins.

But Eddie can’t lay still, so he’s taken to fiddling with Richie’s boombox ( _‘my-my-my-my music hits me so hard, makes me say, oh my lord, thank you for blessing me with a mind to rhyme and two hype feet, it feels good when you know you’re down, a super dope homeboy from the Oaktown, and I know as such and this is a beat, uh, you can’t touch’),_ turning the volume up and down and up and down, rewinding songs to replay and then stopping in the middle because he’s an annoying little shit. He gives up at the start of a Juice Newton song, settling on plucking teeny tiny petals off the daisies he rips from the grass next to their blanket and dropping them one by one into Richie’s unruly curls.

“Aren’t you allergic to flowers or something?” he grumbles, smacking Eddie’s hand away from his face when he starts trying to land them on the smudged lenses of his glasses.

“Yeah, and I’m also allergic to your stench but I still came over, dipshit. I’m _bored!_ ”

“Then go home,” Richie tells him breezily, grinning when Eddie scoffs and nudges him with a knee.

“You’re the one who invited me over! Are we _really_ just gonna sit here all day? Seriously? It’s hot and I’m sweating all my sunscreen off, I think I’m gonna have to go inside and put more on in a second, and so should you, your nose is really red. And you need to go get us some water because I’m tired of drinking fucking lemonade! Like, your mom puts way too much sugar in it and I probably have diabetes now—so way to go, fucktard, you gave me diabetes!—and we’re gonna get dehydrated. I mean, I think you already are, Richie. You took a piss earlier and you didn’t flush the toilet, which is super fucking gross, by the way, but it was _yellow_ _._ Do you _want_ to get kidney stones? And—”

“ _Oh my god_.”

Richie jumps to his feet as Eddie gears up to complain about _Richie_ complaining, only managing to squawk when he’s grabbed by the upper arm and yanked forward so fast he has to crawl a little before he can rise enough to match Richie’s pace.

“You _asshole!_ Let go!”

Richie does, but only so he can climb onto the spinner swing Ben and Bill had helped him make during their ninth grade Spring Break. They’d found an old tire near the barrens and some sturdy rope from Mike’s farm, and the Tozier’s hadn’t cared about Richie hanging it from the only tree in their yard, so that’s what they’d done. He’s gotten more use out of it this year than he had the one before, as prone as he’s become to moments of silent reflection the busier everyone seems to get.

Richie’s jean shorts are ripped and frayed, exposing legs that probably take up seventy-five percent of his body and bony knees that are perpetually bruised. His body hair has ( _especially_ on his shins and stomach) grown drastically, as well, getting darker and more visible in what feels like just a handful of months. The messy mop on top of his head has lengthened, brushing his earlobes and tangling at the edges, and his chin is already a lot more squared.

Eddie, by contrast, hasn’t changed all that much. He’s grown a few inches but is still the shortest of the group, of whoever’s left. His hair’s gotten longer as well, enough for the strands he keeps gelled away in straight lines to shrink into waves, without fail, by the end of each day, regardless of how many times his mother trims it down. His cheeks have lost all their baby fat, his jaw has elongated, and his brows are thicker and more unruly. His eyes are big and passionate, accompanied by long, sweeping lashes, his voice almost an octave lower. About the same as Richie’s, with double the cracks.

Eddie is something else, truly. He makes Richie’s palms sweat when their gazes lock during their usual endless stream of conversations; makes Richie’s body feel warm and itchy when friendly touches linger and turn soft; makes Richie feel tingly on the inside during dreams about what it could feel like if Eddie grabbed this face and smashed their lips together, and then ashamed when he wakes up with a hard-on that eventually wilts from internal panic.

But most importantly, he makes Richie _happy_. Happier than he thinks he has any right to be.

“Your chariot awaits, my good sir!” he declares once he’s in place, fingers wrapping around two of the three ropes that hold the swing, legs dangling through the center hole. “Hop in, hop in! We don’t have all day!”

“We literally do, idiot,” Eddie grumbles, but he does as Richie asks. The tire rocks precariously as he scrambles on. Richie has to plant the toes of his slip-ons into the dirt around the tree’s roots to keep them steady.

It’s only when Eddie’s seated opposite him—one hand gripping an empty rope and the other clumsily brushing against Richie’s on the one they need to share, calves pressing together and locking at the ankles—that Richie catapults them into a spin.

“You better go slow! I really don’t feel like projectile vomiting right now!”

“Relax, Mister Ed. What’s got your panties in such a fuckin’ twist, anyway?”

“Shut up, douchebag.” Eddie shifts, his thighs sliding against Richie’s. “And _nothing_. I just can’t believe Ben ditched us, y’know? He cried every day for like a week when he found out he was leaving, and he promised we’d meet up, and he hasn’t called in thirty-two days. Do you think he’s talked to Bill or Beverly?”

“Seriously? You think he’s forming a new club with them behind our backs or something? Get real, man. They _all_ ditched us. They don’t give a shit.”

“Don’t say that. Bev—I mean, I dunno about Bev, really, but Bill wouldn’t… and _Ben!_ He’s always been nice. He cared about us. Maybe he can’t call? Maybe something happened, like maybe he’s sick or hurt or he lost our numbers or—”

 _“Or_ he just doesn’t wanna fucking talk to us, Eddie. _God_. It’s not that hard to understand.”

“Shut up! What’re you being such a dick for?”

“Because I’m Richard!”

“Don’t even right now. I’m fucking serious!”

“So am I!”

Eddie shakes his head furiously.

“You’re _not_ _!_ You’re acting like you don’t care but I know you do. I think you’re the most upset out of all of us.”

“Pfft. Whatever.”

“Whatever? You know I’m right.”

“You’re not right. But you know who _is?_ Stanley.”

Eddie’s brows furrow. Richie swings them a little faster.

“Stanley? What’s Stan got to do with it?”

“He saw this shit coming, that’s what. Dude’s like a freaky psychic.”

“What’re you talking about, Rich?”

“That—that summer.” He pitches his voice lower suddenly, looking around as if someone might be listening. As if _the clown_ might pop up just from being referenced. He can hardly remember what that thing looked like, outside of sharp teeth and glowing eyes. “Stan was—he was wondering if we’d still be friends once we got older. And Bev and Ben and Bill, thay all said we would, so it’s pretty freaking ironic that they’re the ones who blew us off first chance they got just ‘cause they left this shithole.”

“We’re… we’re not even _older_ yet, Richie. Not _yet_ ,” Eddie tries, but he sounds vulnerable and it makes something in Richie’s chest twinge. “You don’t know that. Maybe once we graduate and leave for college and everything, maybe we can all meet up again. ‘Cause we’ll be able to drive and we’ll have our own money and we won’t have to just… just _sit_ here and wonder what’s going on, and it’ll be like it’s supposed to. Like, all of us together.”

“Come on, Eddie,” Richie whispers. He _is_ as sad as Eddie thinks he is and he doesn’t try to hide it this time. “You honestly think they’ll wanna talk to us in two years when they don’t even wanna talk to us _now?_ Beverly might not even be in Portland anymore, and Bill’s probably gonna go to some artsy school in California or whatever, and Ben… I dunno, he’s gonna build the next Sears Tower or some shit. It’s not the same anymore, man, but we should focus on what we have.”

Eddie stares at Richie with sad doe eyes and pinched brows, lips flattening into a paper thin line. He’s calculating the likelihood of which one of them is more correct, mind working a mile a minute so he can discover an immediate cure for his unpleasant feelings, to be able tell Richie he’s _wrong, wrong, wrong_. But then he deflates because he knows Richie _isn’t_ wrong, not about this. Their group of seven has whittled down to four and it probably won’t ever recover.

“I hate when you’re right,” he says petulantly, staring down at the dirt in dismay. “It pretty much never happens, but I hate when it does.”

“Well, technically Stan was the right one.”

“Hmm. Yeah. But Stan’s always right and I hate that, too. Maybe he really is a psycho.”

“Psychic.”

“That’s what I said.”

They stop spinning, transitioning into a gentle sway. Sweat threatens to spread through their shirts but the gentle wind that rustles by every now and again cools them with its caress. Richie thinks about Bill’s steady guidance and Ben’s unwavering loyalty and Beverly’s helpful nature, and how he misses them deeply. But having Eddie by his side, rarely ever straying, helps soften all the blows.

“Hey, Richie?” He finds Eddie looking at him carefully when his eyes refocus. “It’s gonna be different with us, isn’t it?”

“Uh. What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ —Like, when one of us leaves. One of _us_ ,” he emphasizes to make sure Richie knows he’s talking about them, specifically. No one else included. “ _We’re_ not gonna stop calling and writing and being friends. You’re not gonna stop being the bane of my existence, right?”

“Hell no! I’m your herpes, dude. You’ve got me for life.”

Wait—uh, oh no. Oh fuck. That didn’t come out right. It was supposed to be funny and maybe it was, a little, but it’s also just… not something he should be saying to his best friend. Who is a boy. It sounds like the kind of shit Ben would’ve said to Beverly (minus the herpes part) and that’s so gross, so stupid. _Feelings_ are gross and stupid. And Eddie’s looking at him like like—he doesn’t even _know_ what, but it’s—

“Promise?”

“Huh?”

“ _Promise,_ ” Eddie repeats, a demand rather than a question.

“That I’ll always be your herpes?” The serious death glare has him changing courses quickly. “Uh, I mean, that we’ll keep in touch after graduation? Come on, dude. Of course. We’re gonna stress the shit out of each other so hard we’ll probably go gray by the time we’re thirty!”

“My mom’s been talking about moving,” Eddie explodes. His eyes are wild and his chest is heaving and his skin’s blotchy all over. Richie freezes. “To New York. She keeps talking about next summer and—and what am I supposed to do if she’s serious, Richie? I don’t _want_ to go but I can’t _not_ go, and _fuck,_ I think she means it ‘cause apparently she has a sister somewhere out there and she’s got cancer—fucking _cancer,_ Richie!—and she’s been really weird about it all and she says we have to go help her, but isn’t New York, like, a breeding ground for disease? The population’s crazy! And all those people are getting their germs everywhere, and there’s smog and shit, and people get AIDS from subway poles, _Richie!_ It’s like she doesn’t even remember telling me about that but I can’t forget! I have fucking _nightmares!_ ”

“Eddie.”

His voice comes out flat because he can’t process what he’s just been told, can’t understand the concept of Eddie leaving, can’t accept it. 

The sudden utterance of his name has the smaller boy gaping and gasping like a fish out of water and clawing at his fanny pack. Richie falls on his ass when he hauls himself away from the tire, careful not to kick Eddie off backwards. He rushes over to stand behind him with the intention of helping him calm down by grabbing his shoulders, but his heart’s got a mind of its own, turns out, and he finds himself wrapping his arms around Eddie’s torso, his back to Richie’s chest, before he knows what he’s doing. Richie holds on tight, burying his face in Eddie’s windswept hair. Panic gets its hooks in, but Richie focuses on being a rock for his friend.

“Chill, okay? If—if you’re going, by the time you do I’ll only have like a year left and then I can pack up and follow your annoying ass all the way out to The Big Apple, and we can follow Mike out to Florida from there or something, alright? I’ll kidnap Stan and bring him along, too. It’ll be great, Eds. We’ll figure it all out from there. Trust me.”

Eddie takes a moment to compose himself, evening out his breathing with the help of feeling Richie’s chest pressed close. He digs his perfectly trimmed nails into Richie’s forearms when he’s calm enough to speak again.

“Promise, okay? You better promise, you asswipe, or I’ll—”

“I promise! I promise, geez! You wanna do a blood oath or something?”

“No!”

He grunts when Eddie elbows him in the gut, winces when his jaw clinks shut due to Eddie’s head slamming into his chin when he turns abruptly so they’re face-to-face.

“Don’t even talk about—I mean, _really_ , I can’t believe I let your blood get all over my skin, that’s so fucking disgusting! What was I thinking? Oh, _no_. Do you think I have Hepatitis B? You gave me Hepatitis, Richie!”

“Well, take it up with your mother, short-stuff. She’s the one I got it from!”

“I’m gonna fucking strangle you, Richie. I swear to God—”

“How’s about a spit shake?”

“What? That’s just as bad! Who the hell _knows_ where your mouth’s been—”

“Your mom knows—”

“Why can’t we just pinky swear?”

“Because we’re not girls, dipshit!”

“You’re the dipshit! Why is it always bodily fluids with you? Get some help!”

Richie’s laugh is a tad hollow, like the hole in his chest, but he encircles Eddie’s wrist with his fingers anyways and puts on a smile he’s hoping will hide how much he feels like crying still. Because this? The bickering? This is _their_ thing and he hadn’t anticipated a day when it no longer would be.

He tries to believe that they’ll be different, but… well. Three times seems like a pattern they might be doomed to follow.

“I promise, Eddie,” he says, loud and clear. “I promise we’ll always be friends, okay? Always. Now you.”

“I promise, too. I _promise,_ Richie.”

There’s a beat where they just look at each other, Eddie’s thin wrist held loosely in Richie’s grasp, his rabbit heart thumping against Richie’s fingertips. But then he yanks his arm away, rolls his eyes with a scoff of a laugh, and spits into his palm—the one without the scar—wearing a pouty frown that makes Richie’s heart go _ba-boom_ _._ He spits into his own palm before connecting the two hastily, glancing from Eddie’s lips to watch the fascinating way his fingertips overlap Eddie’s. It takes a second for them both to realize they’re supposed to be initiating a handshake, so they quickly switch into one, flailing their arms up and down a few times, smiles growing each second that passes. Eddie wipes the remaining spit onto the front of Richie’s obnoxiously printed shirt when they’re done. Richie, in turn, wipes _his_ hand on Eddie’s cheek, breaking into a sprint when Eddie screams. He gives chase just like Richie knew he would, and the two slip and run and wrestle in the privacy of Richie’s yard, their troubles momentarily replaced a burst of affection and fun.

**~*~**

Richie blinks down at Eddie as the stifling fog of a memory lifts, what little composure he’d been maintaining beginning to slip when the Eddie that’s in front of him is not only older than the Eddie in his thoughts but also far less lively.

“We were… were so pissed ‘bout them not calling,” Eddie says, unnaturally quiet.

“Yeah, and it turned out to be that Ass-clown and this Ass-town’s fault the whole time. But you told me you were gonna move, you remember that?”

“Made you promise…”

“We shook on it. That we’d always be friends.”

“That it’d be different, with us.” A ghost of a smile graces Eddie’s stained mouth.“Never broke it. Never broke it, Rich. Didn’t know you, still—still always _knew_. Something. S’missing. Missed you.”

 _I_ _’ve been in l_ _ove_ _with_ _you this whole time._ He swallows his confession like the pitiful coward he is. It goes down like poison. _I missed you like crazy._

“Yeah… Yeah, right back at ya, buddy.”

“—EATER OF WORLDS!”

“Sounds like it’s goin’ well,” Eddie coughs, the fatigue in his voice matching his action of slumping lower against the wall.

Richie leans away, trying to peer through the opening several feet to the side, though the crack in his glasses and the splatter of blood— _Eddie’s_ blood—means only one lens is actually useful.

“IMPOSTER!”

“YOU’RE A MIMIC! A _MIMIC!_ ”

“YOU’RE A FUCKING BULLY!”

“YOU’RE JUST A FUCKING CLOWN!”

It’s not hard to catch onto the rules of the game when the Losers are hurling insults like their lives depend on it—which, fine, they _do_ —so Richie, with all his might, with every fiber of his being, full of all his anger and worry and misery, yells with absolute conviction:

“ _A DUMB FUCKING CLOWN!_ ”

He was never afraid of them.

The shouting continues to rage on after that, through a torrent of monstrous roaring. But only one sound matters.

“’chie…”

He looks at Eddie, who is resting against the hard ground with only his head propped up vertically, eyelids dropped disconcertingly low. His hands are still tangled in Richie’s leather jacket and the sight of him laying there so delicately, almost like he could be sleeping if it weren’t for all the blood, pours over Richie like ice water.

 _It_ did this to them; to Stan and Eddie, to Richie and Bill; to Bev and Ben and Mike. It hurt them nearly beyond repair and haunted their whole lives and tore them apart so callously, leaving empty holes in their minds and hearts that might not ever be repaired.

It hurt Eddie, the love of his fucking life, and Richie can’t control the buzzing beneath his skin.

“Eddie, Eds, hey. _E_ _ddie_ _._ Eddie Spaghetti! Keep your eyes open. Look at me, okay? Look at me.”

“Go. Y’should… should go,” he slurs. “Kill that fucker.”

“They don’t need me,” Richie dismisses. He grasps onto the fingers of Eddie’s right hand, the one that’s not already covering the top his own, terrified to let go. “They got this, man. _You_ need me, but you’re gonna be fine, alright? You’re gonna be _fine_.”

“I will,” Eddie whispers, so low that Richie barely hears him. And he wishes he hadn’t because the look in his eyes, the slack in his jaw, the resignation in his voice… it tells Richie that they have two very different definitions of _fine_. “Gotta go, Rich. Do it.”

Richie doesn’t _want_ to, he’d rather pull his own teeth, but he does it anyway. For Eddie. He’d do anything for him and this is no exception. Richie releases him regretfully, doesn’t say _I’ll be right back_ because that never ends well and doesn’t look behind because he knows he’ll see Eddie watching him go and he just… _can’t_.

The others have Pennywise cornered in the same center they’d started this battle in. It is small and shriveled and wrinkly and disgusting, the most pathetic thing that has ever and will ever exist. Richie doesn’t know why he never saw that before.

He surges forward while his friends continue to bully and berate, cornering the self-proclaimed Eater of Worlds like an animal, and he reaches for a flailing spider leg, the very thing that had busted through Eddie’s chest, on instinct, yanking with all his might to tear the nasty limb from the body of their tormentor. He tosses it aside with nothing but contempt, ignoring Beverly’s surprised stare.

 _Clown_ _!_ _Clown_ _!_ _Clown_ _!_

“A clown,” Mike says when It shrinks to the size of a demented child, that humongous head deflating like an old balloon. “With a scared, beating heart.”

And just like that, because they believe, there _is_ a heart and it’s hammering away within the sunken chest of Pennywise the Dancing Clown. They wait as Mike reaches slowly forward, startling when It lunges just before he takes his prize, but there’s no more fear. When Mike pulls it out into the open, the pulsing heart, and they share a look—five pairs of eyes meeting instead of what’s supposed to be seven—each pair of hands comes up to rest against the slimy core.

“Look at you…” Pennywise wheezes. Awed, as if seeing them for the first time, who they _really_ are. “You’re all… grown… up.”

That might just be the only true thing this creature has ever said.

They crush It’s heart together and there’s a moment of catharsis as everything floats away. Richie would deem it too easy if the journey to get here hadn’t been so goddamn awful. Now, it hardly feels worth it, though he hopes that will change in time.

Twenty-seven years of unnamed torture, aired out like healing wounds. Hours and hours of paralyzing memories slowing to a trickle. The question mark ending that summer of 1989 replaced, finally, with a very definite period. The summer of 2016 turning into a prologue for something else.

The rest of their lives.

_The rest of their lives._

“ _Eddie_ ,” he whispers just as Bev’s forehead nuzzles his shoulder. “Eddie, Eddie!”

They all rush over to him immediately and stand at Richie’s back while he flings himself down to loom over his sprawled form.

“Hey, man. We got Pennywise, man!” he says, breathless with excitement and longing and relief.

Eddie doesn’t answer. His eyes are open, though he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t _breathe_.

Richie can’t tell himself not to cup Eddie’s cheek, so he just does it, carefully, not wanting to hurt him like before. He swipes a thumb over the dirty bandage, waiting for Eddie to frown or pull away.

There’s nothing.

 _H_ _e’s still warm_ , Richie thinks, and not just from viscera hanging where it shouldn’t be, but from _life_ , from the heart that had still been chugging along before Richie stepped away. When his hand slides down Eddie’s jaw and his fingers graze Eddie’s neck, the only pulse Richie feels is his own chugging away inside him, harsh and uneven and half of what it’s supposed to be.

He touches Eddie’s cheek again as Bev sniffles his name. He begins to unravel just as the cave around them tilts.

“He—he’s gone,” Bill tells Richie softly. Sorrowfully. He’d apologized, but it hadn’t been enough.

Richie wants to be angry because how _dare_ Bill say that after he got them into this whole mess by dragging them around as kids, absolutely certain his little brother was still alive even when the rest of them knew was never coming back. How _dare_ he give up on Eddie like this—now, of all times! Eddie, who had never, ever given up on any of them, not once! Richie wants to be angry, and yet… Bill’s pronouncement only serves to drain the hope he’d been clinging to.

Richie tries in vain to suck it all back in, to grasp onto _something,_ because this isn’t _real_. No fucking way.

“He’s alright,” Richie swears. It’s true if he believes it is, right? “No, he’s just hurt. We gotta get him outta here, he’s _hurt_ _!_ Ben— _Bill,_ he’s okay!” _He’s okay, he has to be, he’s alright, he’s fine._ “We gotta get him out of here. Bev—”

The words flow without thought.. He sees the way they look at him and the way they look at each other, but all he cares to look at here is Eddie.

 _Move. Come on, you fucker, move! You promised we’d stay friends. Can’t do that if you’re dead, asshole! You promised, Eddie_ _._ _P_ _lease._

“Richie…” Beverly quivers, and that single utterance strikes through his resolve like a bullet, gives him pause. He bows his head, trying to catch his breath, a feeling, _anything_.

“What?”

_D_ _on’t._

“Honey—honey, he’s dead.”

 _He can’t b_ _e._ _No, no, he’s—_

But then he stops. And he waits.

Eddie doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t insult their intelligence for clearly being wrong, doesn’t laugh at how ridiculous this whole situation is, doesn’t cry because he’s coated in filth and blood, doesn’t beg to be helped up so they can get the fuck out of here and never return. Eddie doesn’t shift or breathe or kick Richie’s shin to let him know everything’s going to be _okay._

Eddie is—

Eddie is gone. Eddie is _dead_.

They’re in grade school and Eddie is Bill’s best friend. He’s small and shy and he stares at Stanley curiously but stares at Richie warily, afraid this his mere existence might be contagious. Richie eats glue and accidentally breaks crayons and shares his cookies with Eddie, the ones he hasn’t already drooled on, because his mother only packs him carrot sticks and animal crackers and Eddie doesn’t like Bill’s pretzels enough to trade. They’re in grade school and two pairs of two become a group of four.

They’re in middle school and Eddie is Richie’s best friend. He’s small and aggressive and stares at Richie with disgust but allows himself to be riled by Richie’s trashmouthed taunts anyway. He revels in the attention when it’s the two of them blotting out the world with their constant chatter. Richie talks too much in class and tries to make people squirt milk out of their noses at lunch and he makes fun of Eddie as much as he protects him because Eddie is his best friend and calling each other names is _their_ thing, and nothing else matters. Not even alien killer clowns that live in the sewer and feed off kids just like them. They’re in middle school and Richie feels warm and soft and angry and confused. Eddie is Richie’s first love.

They’re in high school and Eddie is Richie’s other half. He’s still small and aggressive, still stares at Richie with disgust and still allows himself to be riled by Richie’s trashmouthed taunts, but he’s looser and happier and he touches Richie any chance he gets, and Richie nearly explodes with how much he _feels_ for one person and how strongly. Their group is falling apart but Richie and Eddie remain shadows to each other even when the lights go out. They’re in high school and Eddie leaves, and Richie’s heart breaks for the first time but not for the last.

They’re adults and Eddie isn’t anyone Richie knows, but there’s a piece of him that’s been missing for years that only a small, angry, cute, hyperactive idiot can fill. Richie has stubble on his chin and lines etched into his face and his hair’s a mess and his glasses no longer have his eyes looking like a cartoon, and he makes a living making people laugh but the jokes aren’t his because he won’t let himself _be_ who he is. He can’t because he doesn’t _remember_ who he is. He doesn’t remember Eddie, but he remembers that there used to be someone who made him _happy_. They’re adults and Eddie falls back into Richie’s life because of a phone call, and he’s still his best friend, still his first love, his _only_ love. His last love.

They’re adults and Eddie is _dead_.

Richie weeps.

“We have to go, come on,” Beverly whispers urgently. They’ll die down here if they stay any longer, killed by an avalanche of rocks and debris. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. “Come on, Richie…”

“We gotta go!”

Hands are at his back because the place is falling apart, but Richie blocks them out and lifts Eddie into his arms. He hugs him like he should have earlier, when he’d had every opportunity to do so but had been too fucking scared of his own feelings to make a move. He wraps himself around Eddie and rests his face against Eddie’s neck, cradling his head, hair feathery between bloodied fingers, as sobs tear through him. He rocks Eddie’s body in his straining arms, holds him like he’d always dreamed he could, feeling empty when he doesn’t get held in turn.

 _This_ is nothing but a nightmare.

The hands at his back begin to grab and pull. Richie holds onto Eddie tighter. He’s not meant to be anywhere else.

“Let go, man! _Let go!_ ” They don’t. They won’t. “I can’t fucking leave him like this!” he tries, pleadingly. They seize his shoulders and arms, pry his fingers away from Eddie’s soaked clothing, and _tug_. They’re too strong, or he’s too weak, and suddenly Richie is cold, so cold, and Eddie is far, far out of reach, sagging like a rag doll. Richie tries to gain some forward momentum as they drag him backwards, fighting every step of the way. “We can still help him, guys! We can still help him!”

Ben and Bill haul him away from Eddie, his _body_ , as Richie begs himself hoarse and struggles to get free. The rumbling cave overtakes his howls of his grief.

“ _No!_ ” Distress threatens to eat him alive as tears and dust cloud his vision. “We can still help him, guys! We can still help him! No! _Eddie!_ ”

He’s towed away, feet barely touching the ground, struggling and crying, and everything’s collapsing but all Richie sees is Eddie’s silhouette, still and silent, frozen with Richie’s jacket still in his grasp, as they grow farther apart.

“ _Eddie!_ ”

He shouts it again and again and again: as he’s shoved back up the hatch, pulled roughly through the water, forced out of the house on Neibolt. Ben and Mike push and heave and don’t let go, not even when they make it across the street to what’s supposed to be safety. They’re the only things keeping Richie’s legs beneath him when the house demolishes itself and sinks into the earth, burying Eddie for good.

“EDDIE! _EDDIE!”_ he calls, like he might get an answer if he keeps begging for one. Eddie, who hadn’t wanted to walk out of there alone, is the only who hadn’t been able to walk out at all, and Richie can’t accept that. “WE GOTTA GET IN THERE AND GET HIM! _HE’S STILL IN THERE!_ ”

The Losers stand there for a long time, choking on snot and dust, holding onto Richie until he falls as silent as the lonely street they occupy. He couldn’t say when his screaming wanes, but it doesn’t matter. No one listens to him anyway.

*** * ***

The car stops near the trail that leads to the quarry.

He doesn’t want to get out, just like he hadn’t wanted to get in, but Bill takes both of Richie’s hands in his, red flaking off his knuckles, and coaxes him into the open air. His arms hang limply at his sides as he follows the others on autopilot, no words exchanged, up to the cliff.

There’s a sign that hadn’t been there before (NO JUMPING OR DIVING AT ANY TIME) and a rail to block off the edge.

Richie remembers playing loogie with Bill, Eddie, Stan, and Ben before Beverly showed up, the first of them to take the leap. Richie remembers swimming in the water, sitting on Ben’s shoulders to shove Bev off Bill’s. Richie remembers splashing Stan and being dunked by Eddie. Richie remembers drying out in the sun with good music and good friends. Mike hadn’t been there the first time, but he’d been there during the following summers, after Beverly moved away. The two of them are here now, though, while Stan and Eddie are glaringly absent.

Bev climbs over. She runs and leaps while the rest of them slip out of their overshirts and kick away their shoes. Richie barely feels the water when he breaks through it, nothing but white-noise occupying his mind as he kicks up to the surface. Bill finds a shallow spot for them to stand in so they can wash. 

Richie is aware of what he’s doing, of wiping his face and arms, of shoving his hair off his forehead, but it’s all very aimless mechanical. The whooshing in his brain starts to dissipate after a while of just sitting there and soaking down to the bone. He pulls off his dirty glasses and blinks down at them blearily.

His first real thought since being led to the car is that the crack in the lens is still crusted and stained with Eddie’s blood.

“You know what?” Ben wonders suddenly, voice scraping on the way out. “Eddie would’ve hated this, guys.”

The pain Richie had managed to numb on the way here returns with a vengeance, clawing up into his cavernous chest once more.

“What? Cleaning ourselves in dirty water?”

“Yeah.”

“He’d be telling us we’d get Streptococcal-Something,” Beverly says fondly.

“Yeah….” When Richie glances over he sees the the corners of Mike’s mouth quirk up. “But he would’ve made us laugh, though.”

“Oh yeah.”

Grief strikes through Richie again and again with every genial comment spoken around him. Salt getting massaged into open sores. They all loved Eddie, obviously. He was family, a faithful friend, but Richie can’t fucking _take this_ right now. He’s barely hanging on as it is, throat constricting little by little as he tries to maintain his composure. Richie had felt terrible pain in the Deadlights. It’d been _nothing_ compared to the pain he feels now, without Eddie by his side.

He’d lost him for twenty-seven years, living blind because he didn’t know there was anything worth searching for, and now he’s lost him again, only this time there’s no chance of reconciliation. There’s no hope to finally be whole.

“He’d be looking out for us,” Bill says softly, almost to himself. “The way he always was...”

There’s a moment of silence that’s passed around, which is somehow _worse_. Because he can’t hear Eddie’s voice, in this void. Because he won’t ever hear it again.

“Isn’t that right, Richie?”

 _Yeah, he was always looking out for us_ , he doesn’t say. _We should’ve been looking out for him, too._

He’d seen a lot of things in the Deadlights and one of them had been the impalement, yet Richie had done absolute shit-all to stop it from happening. He’d been dazed and confused and enraptured by Eddie’s happy tone and kind smile after a lifetime of torture in the bright nothingness, and then he’d been destroyed.

( _You’re braver than you think._

 _There he is, buddy! Hey, Richie, listen—_ )

The world hadn’t deserved Eddie Kaspbrak, but that didn’t mean Eddie Kaspbrak hadn’t deserved the world. And if Richie was faster, smarter, _better_ , Eddie Kaspbrak would still be around to get it.

Richie wishes they would’ve let that house swallow him whole. He shields his face with a whimper.

“Hey…” Beverly murmurs, too gentle and too soon.

He’s feeling everything at once, crying so hard that the skin around his eyes is already puffing. Someone’s hand slips into his and someone else hugs his arm and two solid weights slip around his front and back. It doesn’t register at first that the remaining Losers are huddling together, surrounding Richie, gathering all the broken pieces with the aim of reassembling. Richie realizes, in an offhanded sort of way, that while they’d _all_ just lost something vital and precious it’s _him_ they’re rallying around to comfort, instinctively understanding that he’s lost something they haven’t, something else. Something different. Not just a sliver of heart, but a half of one.

It’s here, through tears and anger and guilt and mourning, that Richie thinks they must know his (dirty little) secret. And it’s here that he thinks… maybe it’s okay if they do. There’s no way he can pretend to be anything other than wrecked by this, no way he can slip on a mask to fake a version of himself that’ll move on like everyone else will. If they know, so be it. The feelings Eddie was capable of inspiring no longer deserve to be played off or locked away.

They hold Richie while he cries himself out, refusing to let go. Richie returns to the reality of the moment slowly, though it’s somehow quick enough to feel sick and ashamed. He’s too exposed like this, fully _Richie Tozier_ without any pretenses, flayed open to the point that his tears begin to burn him from the inside out. Or maybe that’s just the weight of knowing four individuals have seen too much for his comfort and _still_ want him around.

“Um. Thank you,” he snuffles, blinking some lingering wetness from his eyes. “I don’t have my glasses on so I don’t know who you people are, but thank you.”

They laugh exactly how he hoped they would, exactly how he’d counted on. For the briefest of seconds he feels the warmth of sunshine on his skin. And then he shivers.

“I really legit can’t find my glasses…”

His hands are shaking when he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, saving himself from falling right back into that soggy pit. Bev, Ben, Bill, and Mike paddle away to search beneath the murky water, grumbling good-naturedly with every kick and splash.

Something inexplicably familiar brushes Richie’s foot. He’s practically blind on his own, but he can see it, this thing, clear as day beneath the ripples.

A turtle.

Richie smiles, though he’s not sure why. It’s a small thing, a light thing, and when he closes his eyes and sees a bright, dimpled grin behind his lids, the pain that spikes is covered by a strange sense of serenity that he isn’t sure comes from anywhere inside him at all.

 _Eddie would’ve hated this_ , he thinks, only partially aware. _But he would’ve liked it, too._ _He a_ _lways did._

*** * ***

They ditch the car in favor of savoring more fresh air, their lungs not having gotten their fill yet and their clothes begging for the extra help in drying.

“Do you think Stan…” Bill trails as they walk, fidgeting with the buttons on his plaid shirt. He’s hesitant, but his stutter disappeared during the assault on Pennywise and has yet to return.

The mention of Stan has Richie’s chest throbbing distantly.

“I’ll call his wife once we get back to the Town House,” Beverly decides. They’re probably all trying not to agonize over what news they might hear. Was Stanley still in a coma? Had he woken up? Had they lost two of their own or just—

He clears his sore throat.

“Well, if worst comes to worst, at least his _wife_ will have a body to bury.”

He hates himself as soon as he says it, he really does, because Stan doesn’t deserve this type of bitterness—none of them do, he _knows_ that—but Richie’s feeling a little reckless now, after facing the literal demon of his past and coming out on the other side, alive but nowhere near intact.

There’s nothing else for him to lose.

He glances up at the others briefly, avoiding their weighty gazes as they slow to a crawl. They’re hurt by his comment, sad about the loss, and they pity Richie, above all. Not a great mix.

“Are you worried about Eddie’s wife?” Bill asks carefully, genuine in his wondering. There’s a gleam in his eye that’s calculating, though. Testing. It burns Richie badly, the idea that he’s being put under a microscope right now.

Coming to a full stop, Richie stares blankly at Bill and shakes his head.

“I don’t give a shit about his wife,” he spits with brutal honestly, “but I _do_ give a shit that you made me leave him down there. We could’ve gotten him out! You guys wouldn’t even try, and when I wanted—when I wanted to stay, you took that from me too!”

“Richie…” Beverly wavers, pained and full of guilt. He can’t look at her, can’t _blame_ her, even though it would be so easy to. Richie hadn’t done anything to stop it from happening, either. Maybe that’s what hurts the worst.

Bill’s on the verge of tears when he steps closer.

“I didn’t want to, Richie. Believe me. Leaving Eddie down there—” His breath stutters where his words don’t, “—that’s the _last_ fucking thing I wanted, but I couldn’t, I _couldn’t_ lose anyone else—”

“It’s not always about _you,_ Bill!” Richie shouts, vocal chords raw and torn to shreds from all the screaming and crying he’d already done. “It’s not always about what _you_ fucking want!” 

No one seems shocked by his sudden outburst. Is it because he’d had a similar one that summer, the first time they’d entered and exited the house on Neibolt? _Eddie was nearly killed_ , he remembers shouting, the first major grievance in a long list of shit he’d been pissed at Bill for. Or do they just expect this kind of thing from him, from the person he is and the person he’d become? They always knew him best, even with his secrets. He doubts that’s changed. 

It makes him feel worse, if possible. Even more of an outsider.

“What about Eddie, huh?” he continues, never knowing when to quit. “ _What about Eddie?_ He didn’t want to be left down there, man. He didn’t even want to _go_ down there, but we fuckin’ _made_ him! You with your—with your stupid _oath_ and Ben saying we should all stick together and Bev, you gave him that fence post. Guess what? It didn’t do _shit!_ And Mike, Mike, why’d you have to—and me. _Me._ I said he was brave. I _told_ him. But why did he do that, huh? Why’d he have to be so _good_ , when… when it should’ve been me. It should’ve—”

Richie’s whole body tenses as a hand curves around his shoulder.

“Richie,” Ben says. “Richie stop. It’s okay—”

“Get off me,” he hisses, standing stock still. “I don’t care how many abs you have, Ben, I will fucking _punch you in the throat_ if you don’t get your hand off me.”

“Richie, don’t do this,” Mike begs. To his credit, he doesn’t shrink away at all under Richie’s withering gaze. “We’re all hurting right now, we’ve been through a lot, _you’ve_ been through a lot, but Eddie wouldn’t like it if you—”

“Stop talking about him like he’s been dead for a decade!” The hand on his shoulder squeezes tighter. “You don’t know what Eddie would say right now, what he’d think or feel. And I… I don’t either, because he’s _not_ here, he’s… and—just, _please…_ ”

“Guys,” Ben says calmly. His skin is calloused, scraping Richie’s arm lightly when he trails his hand down. “Go on ahead, alright? We’ll catch up in a minute.”

They’re silent while the others shuffle away into the distance, with Ben studying the side of his face and Richie studying the top of his muddy shoes.

“Rich,” Ben whispers after several long, contemplative seconds. “Listen…”

“Would you have left Bev? If—if, God forbid, it’d been her instead, would you have just _left_ her there to rot?”

Ben takes a step back at the harshness of Richie’s words, inhaling shakily and exhaling steadily.

“We all love each other. We’re a _family_. I know—I know you’re coming from a place of hurt right now, and you have every right to feel that way, but… Richie, you know that’s not fair.”

“Since when has anything about our lives been _fair?_ Answer the question.”

Ben, as honest as ever, scratches his beard and screws up his face..

“No. No, I wouldn’t’ve left her. I know you know that. But tell me this, Rich. If _I’d_ been the one trying to stay behind, knowing what kind of fate that meant, would _you_ have let me?”

Tilting his head up to the sky, Richie closes his eyes against the light and sniffles when his nose begins to leak. His anger fizzles as he tiredly concedes Ben’s point. Richie wouldn’t have let his sweetest friend kill himself over Beverly. He would’ve been helping Mike drag him out the same way Ben had done to him. Because that’s what they do.

They’d all had special bonds with each other and Eddie was no different. Bill had known him the longest, had been a figure to look up to when all Eddie had was his mother to lean on, and Stan had shared a lot of Eddie’s sensibilities, perhaps with less immaturity. Beverly looked out for Eddie that summer the way a big sister would, while Ben admired him, grateful for the kindness he’d often show beneath his prickly exterior. Mike knew, just like Eddie did, how terrible it was to feel powerless in the face of your monsters, and they’d often shared strength within rare quiet moments.

And Richie… well, he and Eddie had been oil and water on the surface but two peas in a pod an inch below. Closer, even. Twin souls. Maybe it’s selfish to think he feels _more_ in the face of losing Eddie, though he believes it to be true. Not more, a quantity—but more, through intensity. If anyone could understand that… it’d be Ben.

“I miss him,” he mumbles earnestly, glancing over towards their friends who are watching very obviously some fifteen feet away.

“It’ll be okay, Richie. Not for a really long time, probably, but it _will_ be. Eddie would want us to—to take care of you, that’s something we _do_ know, so we’ll all make sure of it. We’ll be okay.”

“But I _miss_ him,” he repeats, a confession, on the verge of unraveling again. “I’ve missed him my whole life, but it’s not the same. It’s never—” A few stray tears spill over when he blinks. “It’s never gonna be the same, you know?”

“I know,” Ben admits, pulling Richie into a crushing hug. He wars with himself about it for all of three seconds before sagging completely, wiping snot on Ben’s smelly, wrinkled denim shirt. “And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but you’re not alone, Rich. And you won’t be ever again. We love you, okay? We’re with you.”

He nods, which is about all he can do, and follows Ben to the group of waiting Losers after wiping his face and catching his breath. Bill purposefully catches his eye once he’s close enough, is hesitant to keep moving without a hint at where they stand, like he thinks he might deserve another cutting comment but is prepared to be snubbed regardless. What he gets is a nod—of acknowledgement, of solidarity, of apology—from Richie. This is all he has left and he’s not about to leave it behind.

They go on.

Richie breathes through his nose and counts each step he takes as they traverse the street, coming onto the main drag, and the others give him the distance he quietly asks for by walking with a gap between them. He spots The Capitol Theatre coming up on their left and doesn’t spare it a second glance.

“Hey, guys? Look.”

Beverly draws their attention towards the reason she’s stopped, holding her palm held up for observation.

Her scar from the blood oath is gone. And so is Bill’s and Mike’s and Ben’s and—

Richie’s. Richie’s is gone, as well. Completely erased from existence.

( _Swear it. S-Swear if It isn’t dead, if it ever comes back, we’ll come back too._ )

Fulfilled.

He brings his other hand to his face to study. There’d never been a mark on this one, not visibly, but when he looks at it the spit shake crosses his mind once more.

( _I promise, Eddie. I promise we’ll always be friends_ _, o_ _kay?_ _Always._ )

Irrevocable.

“Nothing lasts forever,” Mike says wistfully.

“Except love,” Beverly amends.

And then… _The Kissing Bridge_ , Richie thinks. Another promise, this one to himself. To push it out in some way, his love; to not let it fester just because he couldn’t say the words aloud. Not ‘ _I like boys_ ’ and not ‘ _I love Eddie._ ’ Not in Derry, not even to the Losers. It was a promise and a declaration, even if no one but Richie might ever know.

R + E

Is that gone, too? Had the bridge been repaired over the years? Had the defeat of It dusted away any evidence of the summer his demise begin? Had it disappeared once Eddie took his last breath? Richie knows, very clearly, that a nerve somewhere deep inside him has been severed, left dangling and raw.

His thoughts are disrupted when he realizes Bev, Bill, Mike, and Ben are staring in awe at the shop window in front of where they stand. He joins them.

Their reflections shimmer underneath a sign that reads _Derry Is Calling You_ , Richie realizes, but instead of a line of five forty year olds looking rumpled and drained, he sees a line of seven thirteen year olds, covered in dirt and muck and as content as they’d ever been.

( _“_ _I can’t go home like this, guys,”_ Eddie complains, always the first to start. _“My mom’ll kill me._ ”

 _“Dude, you’ve been gone for twenty-four straight hours. Your face is definitely on a milk carton by now.”_ When Eddie stares at him, all dumb and cute with parted lips and wild hair, Richie can’t resist antagonizing him a little. _“Also, that puke smells worse than your mom’s slippers.”_

 _“Oh shut up, Richie,”_ Beverly sighs.

Eddie ignores her just like Richie does.

_“Okay, first of all? My mom’s slippers smell like potpourri, asshole—”_

_“No they don’t,”_ Stan cuts in as they roll their bikes forward.

_“Yes they do! And also, how would you know what they smell like in the first place?”_

Richie grins to himself.

 _“Can we just keep it quiet, please?_ _”_ Mike pleads. _“_ _Until we get home?”_

_“There’s potpourri all over my bathroom—”_

_“Eddie_ _!_ _”_ Ben exclaims. _“_ _P_ _otpourri is like literally a french word meaning ‘rotten pot’ and—”_ )

Richie shuts his eyes and turns away. He’s the first one to resume their trek. It’s not so much that he’s eager to get back to the Town House—into something less stuffy and stiff, knowing he won’t be able to sleep because all he’ll dream of are things that haunt him—but more so that he’s too restless to stay in any one spot, stewing in memories.

They’d spent so much time at the quarry, the sun that’d been new when they came back out of the Well House is now hanging low in the sky, tinting everything orange as it begins the process of setting once more. Richie would really like to down a bottle of bourbon before night falls. He’s not prepared to be alone with his thoughts and emotions while sober.

Beverly’s the first through both sets of double doors, sluggishly followed by Richie, Ben, Bill, then Mike. Quiet murmurs start up from the latter two as they step past the entrance, everything seeming exactly how they’d left it hours (eons) ago. Bev heads for the stairs and Richie makes a beeline for the bar in the other room.

They freeze.

There are six footsteps instead of five.

A shrill shout from the second floor echoes across the landing. Every hair on Richie’s body stands on end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm realizing I didn't split these chapters very well. This one is super long, unreasonably so, probably way longer than any of the others (mostly because I didn't want to drag out the parts from the movie) which means it took me forever to re-edit it because I hate editing and reading my own stuff (I'm sure there are still some dumb mistakes). :') That's why I didn't post Saturday, I was slacking. Sorry. Anyway, this is the last chapter to feature the events of Chapter Two, so we'll be going into pure indulgent fix-it territory from here on. 
> 
> Thank you to anyone who is reading, giving kudos, and/or commenting. It really means a lot to me. I've spent a long time writing this fic, so I really just want you guys to get some enjoyment out of it. If you do, let me know! It helps a lot. 
> 
> I'm sorry that we all had to relive Eddie's death again for this (no joke, I cry every time I watch any part of Chapter Two's ending, no matter what it is. They really had to kill me like that huh). But fluff is coming soon. *eyes emoji*


	4. God Might Be A Turtle

“WHERE THE FUCK HAVE _YOU_ ALL BEEN?!”

Beverly screams, which makes Richie scream, which makes Eddie scream—

 _Eddie_.

He’s… standing on the second floor, scrambling away from the railing with fearful eyes, as if _he’s_ the one seeing a fucking ghost. He’s wearing different clothes—dark pants instead of jeans, white tee instead of yellow, gray jacket, unzipped, instead of blue—and there’s no bandage on his cheek, just a faded line, and no blood seeping through the cloth covering his torso—

Richie slips backward, shoulder slamming into the doorway.

“ _No_ _,_ ” Bill groans. “ _No_ _!_ We killed It, this can’t… Mikey, what’s goin’ on? _Mike—_ ”

“I don’t know! Bill, I—I don’t know. We—we felt It die, the heart—”

“Oh, _fuck_.” Richie can’t tear his gaze away from the Eddie-shaped figure upstairs. “Oh, god. We’re dead, right? We’re all fucking dead and this is—this is the place Bev said we were gonna end up!”

“We gotta go!” Ben calls, shielding Beverly with his body while backing them both up. “We have to go! Somewhere, anywhere. We can regroup! We can…”

Bill and Mike look like they aren’t sure what they should do, despite Ben’s suggestion, and Richie? Richie can’t _move._ He’s captured by Eddie, or the perfect recreation of him, whatever the fuck this is, and he knows he can’t fucking _deal_ with this along with everything else.

“Wait, _what?_ No, guys, you assholes! You’re not dead! _I’m_ not dead. I’m—” Eddie steps closer to the railing again, white-knuckling the banister with one hand while the other presses gingerly against his chest. He looks down, then up, then all around, then… squarely at Richie. “I’m not dead. I was, but—but I’m not now. _Jesus_ , I don’t know how to explain—just, please. _Please_. I’m here and I’ve been waiting for hours, _all day_ , and I didn’t know what the fuck happened to you after or what I should do, if I _could_ do anything! I’ve been freaking the fuck out! I don’t even have my inhaler, you made me burn it for some shitty ritual that didn’t work! I thought about going back to the pharmacy. I got covered in leper vomit last time I was there and, I mean, if It’s really dead then I guess I don’t have to worry about a repeat, but I literally _just_ took three showers and I really didn’t wanna risk it, you know? I think I rubbed some of my skin off. And—and Mr. Keene thinks I have cancer, so _that’s_ fucking fantastic—”

Richie’s body moves on its own volition, creeping closer and closer to the staircase before he even realizes what he’s doing. There’s a chorus of _‘Richie, stop, no_ ’ behind him and someone gets ahold of the back of his shirt, but then those fingers slip away and so do the voices. Even Eddie’s, who’s jaw clicks shut when Richie keeps advancing. His lips are firmly pursed, eyes as round as saucers, chin tucked down to his sternum. He looks exactly like Eddie, but it _can’t_ be. He’d _died_ and his corpse had been buried under rubble, and Richie can’t get that dead-eyed stare out of his mind even as those same big eyes that look exactly like Eddie’s now threaten to swallow him whole.

“If you’re the clown,” he starts lowly, ascending each step one at a time, because what could this be if _not_ another failed extermination? “If you’re the _fucking_ clown, then kill me. Right now. Take your shot.”

“Richie!” Beverly gasps below.

Eddie stares.

“If you’re the clown… kill me, you sloppy little bitch. Just—I’m _done_ with your bullshit! I’m _done_ , you weak ass pussy!” 

He stands in front of would-be Eddie, toe-to-toe, watching the face he never thought he’d see again with every emotion he’s ever felt. Utterly exposed, like this is some goddamned Pay-For-Porn tailor made for masochists, cheap and on demand.

“Do it now, you fucker. Chomp my head off! ‘Cause if you don’t then I won’t stop, you hear me?” He slams his hands down onto thin, broad shoulders and shakes roughly. “I’ll fucking find you! I’ll be seventy years old but I’ll come back for you and I’ll rip your fucking heart out again—all by myself, if that’s what it takes—and it’ll be _real_. So get it over with, asshole! First shot’s free, make it count. Fucking _kill_ me. Right now!”

“Richie. Richie, it’s _me_ ,” Eddie whispers in response, so softly that it’s almost a figment of his imagination. “Hey, it’s Eddie. _I’m_ Eddie. I’m okay, Rich, and you’re okay, so just… please, stop saying shit like that. You’re—you’re scaring me.” He says that part like he’d rather do anything but admit such a thing. But then, as his eyes dart over Richie’s face, his expression shifts, the usual constipation twisting into something close to hysteria that he tries and fails to mask with outrage. “And stop shaking me, shitbag! I had to claw my way out of a fucking disaster zone and I’m really sore—”

Richie doesn’t know how he knows it, that this is the one and only Eddie Kaspbrak, truly here in the flesh, but he _does_. Because it’s as if the piece of him that’d been unceremoniously ripped away has miraculously been sewn back into place, worn and faded and uneven and maybe the wrong way around, but still very much present.

“ _Eddie_ ,” Richie chokes, and the man he loves with all his heart is standing right in front of him, alive, and there’s no way he could make himself think otherwise. If this _isn’t_ real—if it’s a dream, don’t wake him; and if it’s some personal form of heaven or hell then thank whatever God gave it to him—and if it _is_ real, then… then _shit_.

He wraps his arms around Eddie, one at his waist and one at his back, cradling Eddie’s head while burying his face in the crook of his neck, glasses knocked askew. The last time he’d done this Eddie had been dead. Unmoving. He hadn’t hugged back because he couldn’t. But this time? Eddie _holds_ Richie, holds him like he doesn’t know how to do anything else, his fingers tangling in Richie’s flat, knotted hair. His forehead rolls against Richie’s shoulder, chests bumping the closer they shimmy together, hearts thumping beat for beat in a dangerous race they’re both winners of. He can scarcely believe it.

Richie buckles then, falling to his knees and taking Eddie with him, and they tumble together into a heap atop the wooden flooring, grunting and groaning and clinging on tight.

 _I love yo_ u, he should say. He’s had so many chances and he’s squandered each one, but it’s not the right time, it never is, and if Eddie’s really back then Richie doesn’t want to be selfish and unload all his shit onto someone who can barely unpack their own on a normal day. So what actually comes out of his mouth is another broken cry of “ _Eddie_.” It means the same thing to him, either way.

“Yeah. Yeah, buddy, it’s me.”

“Is it?” It’s hard to speak through all the mucus he’s producing. “I dunno, man. You haven’t called me _bro_ yet. That’s one of the first things you did when we—”

“Shut up, _bro_. And try to cry a little less, alright? You’re getting snot all over me and I just changed my clothes.”

Eddie’s firmness is vastly undercut by his watery undertone, and he’s pretty sure that Eddie’s smearing his own snot all over Richie’s cheek, but neither of them actually minds. Richie sobs and laughs, in fact, and so does Eddie, and four other pairs of arms suddenly wrap around them, still partially on the top steps of the staircase, all squeezed in. It’s _a lot_ , in a surprisingly good way.

The Losers sit there for a long, long time. Their bodies ache and their limbs are cramped and they’re somehow more drained than they were before, during the actual battle, but their tears this time are from joy and relief, Richie knows. They remain in a pile on the floor, overlapping each other carelessly, the only sounds in the entire Town House—which is still weird, Richie thinks distantly, that no one’s around, not even the person he’d spoken to when booking his room—are the slow, steady inhalations and exhalations of six friends who beat the devil and lived to tell the tale. There’s a pretty good chance Bill might just do so.

Richie feels quite a bit of whiplash from damn near everything. He fears that this might be some sort of cosmic trick, despite the fluttering in his gut telling him otherwise, but he lets go of all the doubts to simply _exist_.

Eddie’s head is on Richie’s shoulder, his legs sprawled over Bill’s lap, one hand locked with Ben’s from over his stomach and the other gripping the length of Richie’s forearm. Beverly’s tucked beneath one of Ben’s massive biceps, head under his chin, long fingers interlaced with Richie’s and folded over Eddie’s knee, tracing aimless patterns on the lower part of his thigh. Mike’s got his arms slung around Bill and Ben, and his head is bowed with his eyes closed, but he opens them every few seconds to make sure everyone’s exactly where they should be. Bill leans almost uncomfortably over Eddie’s calves and Bev’s hips, face smashed into Mike’s collarbone, where he stares up at Richie with tears leaking from his eyes and a smile so bright that Richie’s sure the force of it dries some of the dampness lingering on his own cheeks.

If only Stan were here. He’d be on Bill’s other side, legs tucked against Eddie’s back, smiling at them in the way he always used to, deliberate and sincere.

And it’s like the instant he thinks of Stanley, Eddie does as well.

“Guys? Do you know if Stan…?”

“Shit,” Beverly hisses into Ben’s shirt. “I was going to call his wife once we got back, but then, um…”

“We weren’t expecting you to have risen from the dead,” Richie mumbles through a mouthful of Eddie’s squeaky clean hair. He sniffles discreetly. “It hasn’t even been a full day, man, let alone three. You think you’ll go to hell for upstaging Jesus?”

“Beep beep,” Ben says, vibrating with quiet laughter.

“Oh!” The volume of Beverly’s voice makes everyone flinch. She wiggles their joined hands in the air. “You didn’t get to see it, but when you were in the Deadlights—” His body clenches at the mention, “—Eddie threw that fence post straight through Pennywise. Right through his big, ugly head.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I _did_ do that,” Eddie beams, making Richie feel all dopey inside.

“And he said—” She pauses to giggle. “He said: _beep beep, motherfucker!_ _”_

“I, uh, yes. I said that, huh?”

“You did.” Bev grins. “You really did.”

“Shit, Eduardo. That’s even more badass than you stabbing Bowers with your own face-knife.”

“But not as badass as coming back from the dead, right?” Bill’s voice is casual enough, but they all pick up on the seriousness of it immediately. The underlying meaning is clear: _we need to talk, we need answers._ “How… how’d that happen, Eddie? You remember?”

Richie blinks slowly, leaving his eyes shut a few lingering seconds in between. The images of Eddie being speared as he hovered above him, bleeding out beneath his hands, devoid of all life upon It’s defeat, left behind and buried under endless rubble… Those things weren’t just visions from the Deadlights, they’d all actually happened. Eddie had _actually_ died. He was here now, thank every power out there for that little twist of fate, but the previous devastation hadn’t just disappeared the second Richie felt Eddie’s warmth against him. Even if they all forget again once they leave Derry, this kind of trauma is going to stick with Richie for… a while. He thought he’d wanted to forget, before. Now he thinks he’d like to remember, even if it's just so he can call Eddie on the phone and hear his voice whenever he needs to.

“It’s, um, pretty fuzzy? I remember telling Richie to go, you guys needed him and I didn’t want anyone else to… to get hurt. I was so tired. I mean, I couldn’t even feel the pain anymore. I was just exhausted, I needed to sleep, and I felt—I felt proud. Of you guys. Of coming back and facing my fears, and seeing you all again. Like—I was fucking dying but my biggest regret was how much my life sucked before I came back.

“So I was sitting there and I was thinking about that summer, when my mom took me to the hospital after my arm got broken. She was lecturing me about everything, but mostly about me hanging out with all of you. She said you were bad friends because of what happened, like you’d done it to me yourselves, and I remember, I just thought _no_. There’s no such thing. No good friends or bad friends, just… friends, y’know? People who stand by you when you’re hurt and make you feel less lonely. People like _you_. The Losers. That summer and after and now, you were worth hoping for and living for and—and fucking being _scared_ for, and even then I thought you were all worth dying for. I thought that when I was fucking thirteen and I forgot it this whole time, and then I _remembered_. And I was dying but I knew it was okay, because it was for you.”

Richie glances down when the strain in Eddie’s voice becomes too apparent to ignore. He sees shiny eyes look at Bill, Bev, Ben, and Mike with pure adoration, and then he lands on Richie and it’s still the same, that adoration, but something shifts in his gaze that makes Richie’s skin prickle with unwelcome heat.

“Because you’re my friends,” Eddie continues, looking away from Richie every couple of seconds but always coming back and settling for a couple more. “Not good or bad, just people you want to be with and people you _need_ to be with, and people who kind of… build their houses in your heart. _Jesus_ , that sounds stupid, I just mean—I could hear you guys yelling at the clown and I kept thinking about how much it meant to be part of something like that again. How much it meant to have you back, even if it was only for a little while.”

Richie’s _not_ going to cry again, okay? No, he fucking _isn’t_.

Ben has no such reservations, that tall, handsome wuss.

“That’s beautiful, Eddie.”

“And fuckin’ cheesy, man.”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole! I fucking _died,_ I can say whatever the hell I want!”

“You _always_ said whatever you wanted. What was your excuse before?”

“You’re _so_ not one to talk, Trashmouth. Do you even hear half the shit you say, literally out loud for everyone to suffer through?”

“Hey…” Bill’s mouth twitches apologetically at the interruption, but they’re getting too far off track. “What about, uh, anything… after? I’m sorry for bringing it up, I really am, but even with all the crazy in our lives, this is just… it’s incredible. And I’m stealing what you said, by the way. I’ve got a new idea and I think that’s the perfect way to start. I’ll credit you—”

“Bill, don’t worry about it. Just give it a good ending for once.” Richie snorts. The rest of the Losers, Bill included, laugh softly. Eddie sits up the best he can while keeping his hold on Richie and Bev, twists his mouth this way and that, and sighs. “Like I said, it’s all pretty fuzzy, but guys? I think God might be a turtle.”

*** * ***

It was a… strange discussion, to say the least. Possibly stranger than a cosmic entity crash landing on earth millions of years ago and taking the form of a clown, but also probably not because: an ancient turtle swimming around in the very fabric of space and time, sucking your soul in through its nostrils and vomiting you out so hard you’re forced back into the body you’d slipped from in death? _That_ might just be the most bizarre thing Richie’s ever heard, partly because he hadn’t witnessed it with his own four-eyes like he had everything else. It also might be the best.

Eddie’s alive thanks to one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Or maybe all four. _Wild_. It’s still hard for him to stomach, however. The overwhelming surge of happiness he’d felt when Eddie had been in the center of their dog-pile drifted away with him when he’d decided, along with Bill, to finally get some rest.

Richie, meanwhile, leans against the bar with a bottle of scotch in hand, listening to Bev, Ben, and Mike talk lowly in the other room. The new duo had reminded Mike about Henry Bowers’ body when he’d mentioned heading back to the library for the night, even offering Bev’s room for him to use because she was going to be sharing Ben’s bed tonight regardless. Richie swallows a mouthful of the alcohol he’d nabbed from behind the unattended bar and then another soon after.

They’d made a collective decision to put off calling Stanley’s wife until morning. To be polite, sure, but also mostly because none of them were ready to find out if they were permanently down a member after the bombshell that’d just been dropped on them in the form of Eddie’s mystical resurrection. So Richie stands at the bar and he thinks of Stan in the hospital; he thinks of Eddie bleeding out deep below ground and how he’s _okay_ and trying to fall asleep upstairs this very moment; he thinks of Bev and Ben snuggling on a couch in the adjacent room; he thinks of Bill no doubt having a conversation with his wife while he lies awake in an unfamiliar bed; he thinks of Mike taking the first real break he’s had since the death of his parents, probably, and how he must be reeling now that his self-appointed mission is finally over.

And then Richie thinks of all the things Eddie had told them: of the deep love he had for the Losers, the enveloping blackness that followed total numbness, his one-way conversation with a celestial turtle he couldn’t really understand but intrinsically knew meant something incredible, waking up slow with heavy breaths and no injuries at all aside from the ones he obtained trying to claw his way back up to the surface.

Eddie thought he’d seen Stan among the stars. Absently, he mentioned that he’d seen Richie, too. Whatever the fuck _that_ meant.

Richie’s starting to feel a little woozy by the time Beverly saunters over to occupy one of the stools at the bar. She drops a pack of Marlboros onto the counter, a lone cigarette already pressed between her lips, lighter in hand. She takes a long drag and closes her eyes on the exhale. Richie savors a puff when she offers it to him.

“Drink?” he asks, shaking the bottle that’s becoming dangerously low. “The service here sucks, but I can mix you up somethin’ real good, Miss Marsh. Or should I say _Future Mrs. Hanscom?_ ”

She rolls her eyes at Richie and grins behind her free hand. Her arms are still bare and he can’t tell which bruises are from her husband or from their boss fight with It.

“We’ve got a long ways to go before we get there,” she murmurs, flicking some ash, “but maybe someday. I might actually hyphenate this time.”

Richie pours her a glass of scotch and trades it for a cigarette. He’d never been much of a smoker, had only ever tried it because it looked sort of cool and because if Beverly, a _girl_ , could do it then so could Richie, but he’d never grown a taste for cigarettes the way she did. The inhale is foreign, it’s been so long, burns his throat and lungs in a way that’s entirely different from the grief that’d been consuming him earlier. A welcome distraction.

“So,” she says after a few ticks of relative silence. Ben and Mike chortle over something nearby. “The Deadlights.”

“Yup.” He shakes his head, flopping his matted hair this way and that. “ _Damn,_ Bev. If you really lived with all that bullshit haunting your brain every night, like… congratulations on not checking yourself in to the nearest loony bin, that’s all I gotta say.”

“Richie,” she scolds, and then she sighs and drains her glass in one go. Steeling herself. “It was definitely… unpleasant. What’d you see? Do you remember?”

“Same thing as you, I guess. Lots of pain, lots of torture. All of us dying.” The images from before flash across his pupils like he’s staring at a television screen instead of Bev’s frown. “Hey, promise you won’t get within ten feet of that motherfucker you’re divorcing, alright? And tell Ben not to break up any bar fights.”

“Promise. But did you ever see this, um, shell? With—”

“A bunch of beady eyes? Swimming through a galaxy? Yeah, I did.”

“Do you think that could be—”

Richie’s eyes widen with sudden realization.

“ _The Turtle_ _,_ ” he blurts at the same time as Beverly. They share an incredulous smile.

“I always wondered what it meant.” She sounds far away for a few seconds, stuck somewhere in the past. Richie recalls the little fella that had brushed his foot at the quarry. Twice. “I’d dream about it sometimes, but I never understood. Those were the better nights.”

“Being in there… it didn’t seem like anything when it was happening, time-wise. Then I got out and it felt like years had passed. So I can’t figure out how long I was staring at some weird Turtle God thing, but I definitely saw it. Didn’t really look like anything at first, though. Just a blob.”

“Yeah, it was the same for me. What about, um… Did you—did you see Eddie?”

“Yeah.” The problem is that he can’t _un_ see Him. “Saw… saw a lot of Eddie. Lot of Eddie dying.”

“I saw a lot of Ben,” she whispers, the corners of her mouth strained but her green eyes fully vulnerable. Richie’s breath hitches in his chest. “I didn’t even know who he was, only that he was important somehow. I saw all of you, of course, but Ben was there the most. In my dreams. He died the most.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“Yeah. And when I came back I thought maybe he was just really at risk, you know? Because Bill…” She shakes her head fondly, smiling down at her hands as she splays them across the bartop. “It was always Ben, wasn’t it?”

“I dunno. I guess so. I mean, I think he wrote some lame poem for you back in the day. That’s what you burned, right? And he—”

“Kissed me. Brought me out of the Deadlights.”

Richie hums and looks away, busies himself with searching the rows of glasses on the shelf below so he doesn’t have to imagine what it would’ve been like to wake up with Eddie kissing him. _Fucking idiot._

“I think you should tell him.”

Panic begins to boil in the pit of his gut.

“Tell who what?”

“ _Richie_.” She says his name like a warning, clearly not interested in playing along. But to him it’s not a game, it’s self preservation.

“Beverly.”

“Honey—”

“Hey, do you think I could drink this whole bottle of vodka without immediately dropping dead? Might be worth trying.”

“Richie, listen to me. When you—when you dropped out of the Deadlights and I saw Eddie rushing over… I thought he was going to kiss you, too.” Richie tenses at her admittance ( _is Beverly secretly a mind reader?_ )and then laughs. Cackles, really. There’s no humor in it. “He just looked—I don’t know. I’ve never seen him look like that.”

“Like what? Relieved someone finally got me to shut up?”

“Rich.”

“What? _What_ , Bev? Why would you even, why would you _say_ something like that? Why would he—That’s just… really fuckin’ weird. I think it’s past your bedtime. Lemme go get Ben, I’m sure he’ll be _thrilled_ to tuck you in.”

He’s trying to sound normal and not at all like the very idea of Eddie kissing him is one he’s pictured countless times. He starts to move around the bar when she settles her hand on his, which is curled into a tight fist atop the counter. He’s shaking.

“We love Eddie,” she says carefully.

“Yeah.”

“ _You_ love Eddie.”

He squints at her.

“...Yeah. And?”

“I saw what you did to that spider leg. The one that stabbed him.”

“Okay, so I got a little maim-y. So what?” His laugh comes out hysterical as he shakes her hand off his. “We went down there to kill It. We crushed that fucker’s heart with our _bare hands_ _,_ now you’re telling me dismemberment’s going too far? Bullshit.”

“What about after? When you—when you wanted to stay behind. You—” Her eyes are welling up with tears. Richie bites his lip. “You kept trying to—to go back for Eddie. You didn’t want to let him go. You wanted...”

_You wanted to die with him._

He’d admitted as much on the way back into town, perhaps a little more vaguely, but Richie doesn’t think she bring herself to say the words explicitly. Out loud. Like she’s afraid something bad might happen if she does.

“We left him down there, Bev,” he hisses, glancing over to the spot at the top of the staircase where Eddie had been waiting. “His _body_. We—he’s always hated the dark. And I couldn’t… I didn’t wanna leave him in a tomb of fucking _death_ and literal _garbage_ and shit. He deserved— _deserves_ —so much better. He saved my life. He’s my best friend. What’re you trying to say anyway, huh? Whatever fairytale bullshit worked last time, that’s only ‘cause you and Ben were in love with each other way back when. Maybe you didn’t know it, but that’s how we ended up here, right? You’ve got your _happily ever after_ , good for you, but that’s not gonna work for everyone. Eddie’s voice, I’d know that yap anywhere. Something _that_ annoying’s like a testament to reality’s existence, all by itself. _Of course_ it was gonna be enough. He didn’t need to—he _knew_ he didn’t have to. It’s not like that. I mean, _Christ!_ Ben’s been carrying a torch for twenty-seven years, how’s that got anything to do with me or Eddie?”

The panic is setting in, adding credence to whatever the fuck she’s trying to say, but Richie can’t admit it. Can’t go with the flow on this. It’s too difficult.

He’d accepted his private face a very long time ago, though he couldn’t ever bring himself to blend it into his public persona. There were scraps of his truth revealed in toilet stalls and backseats and changing rooms, but never anything the tabloids could get their slimy paws on, never anything open or free. 

Hell, Richie had anonymously declared his love for Eddie Kaspbrak to the town of Derry at age thirteen, yet not one person (evil clown beings excluded) in all that time since had ever figured it out. He’d been _very_ good at hiding—until reuniting with the only group of people who ever cared to give him a second glance. He’d always demanded attention and then turned tail the moment anyone dared to look below the surface, for reasons he believed only himself privy of.

He thought he’d been okay with them all knowing back at the quarry as he cried himself into oblivion, but there’d been no real consequences, then, because Eddie was _dead_. It was okay if they knew, _then_ , because that was the end of the story. No epilogues, no sequels, no follow-ups allowed. He and his feelings would fade into the background and no one would say shit to the guy who’d forever mourn the one-sided love of his life in quiet agony. But _now?_ Eddie’s back and Richie’s feelings are still there, always will be, and Beverly’s bringing it up because he’d already laid himself bare by falling apart. She’s talking about it because Eddie’s _here_ and she thinks that means a resolution is needed; a punchline to end the worst joke that’s ever been told.

Richie tenses with jarring panic at being forced to face everything all at once. And then he thinks… if Beverly’s bringing it up already, then what about the others? Will Ben come knocking on his door in the morning just to ask if he’s got a moment to talk about how much Richie is in love with Eddie Kaspbrak? Will Bill corner him while he’s trying to eat a bagel and _not_ puke up his hangover and launch into a flowery speech that’s supposed to make Richie realize how great his life will be if he just confesses? Will Mike stand by the front door with his arms crossed while staring disapprovingly because Richie can’t get his shit together, not even after all this time?

At least Eddie is still a clueless little fuck, but he won’t be for long if this keeps up.

“I don’t know,” Beverly quietly states after a stretch of nothing. He can tell it’s a lie. “I just thought, maybe…”

Richie crushes his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. He starts to put his hands into his pockets, stops when he realizes he hasn’t been wearing a jacket for hours, stuffs his fingers into the pockets of his stiff jeans instead.

“It was a different situation,” she concedes. “Different circumstances.”

“Right.”

“But Richie… the whole ‘carrying a torch’ thing? I _know_ what that looks like. I saw it today. Not just with me and Ben, but—”

“Mazel tov, by the way!” he interrupts loudly, taking several big steps away. “I’m real happy you and Mr. Six Pack are finally a _Thing_ , in case that wasn’t clear, but I really gotta go take a leak before I piss myself. Catch you later! Wake me up before you call Stan’s wife!”

He’s being a little bitch by running away, but what else can he do? Beverly’s always been too smart, too tenacious, for her own good. He hadn’t planned on someone approaching him about this until he was ready to say anything. Which, uh, was supposed to be _never_. But here he is, yelling goodnight to Ben and Mike as he passes by to rush up the stairs, two at a time, while trying to ignore his internal monologue of _‘oooooh, fuck, Beverly wants to talk about feelings, better get the fuck out of dodge for real this time_ _!_ _’_ Only, for now, _‘out of dodge’_ means _‘back up to my room’_ instead of _‘thousands of miles away from Derry’_ because Richie is a sappy piece of shit who wants to be with the rest of the Losers when they find out the fate of Stanley Uris.

It’s relatively dark up here, with most of the dim light coming from the chandeliers meant for the first floor and the sconces that line the way to the second. There thankfully isn’t much to trip on, though the shadow of the plant that leans against the farthest wall makes him jump a little, as does the way Mike’s gaze seems to follow him when he makes the mistake of peering down over the banister. He pauses in front of what he knows to be Eddie’s door, holds his breath and tries to listen to any noise that might be coming from the other side. It’s terrifyingly silent and he tells himself that it’s _fine_. He wouldn’t be able to hear Eddie breathing all the way from out here anyway, not even if he snored.

Richie hadn’t locked his own door during his sneaky retreat the previous day and he hadn’t dropped the key off at the front desk either, so it should still be accessible. Then he remembers that he’d left his duffel bag in the Mustang GT, and that he’d left the Mustang GT at the library, and _shit_. He debates with himself about descending once more, taking a late night stroll just to grab himself a clean pair of underwear, but that would mean passing by Beverly again and she probably won’t try to talk but she _will_ give him a _Look_ , and _nope_. N-o-p-e. Clean clothes are officially a problem for Future Richie.

The first thing he notices when he shoves into his room is that the light next to the bed is on, which is weird considering it’d been off the last time he was here, he’s certain, and then he realizes there’s someone sitting on his bed—

He shouts on instinct, flailing wildly wildly, holding his hands out as a shield while stumbling into the wall. The shape on the bed screams in reply, throwing itself onto the floor for cover with a pained _oompf_.

“Richie?” Bill calls from down the hall. “You okay?”

“I, uh!” He sags with relief when Eddie’s head pops up over the mattress, the hood of his jacket tangled around his neck. “I’m fine! Shit, just—there was a spider—”

( _We’re not afraid of fucking spiders, Stanley._ )

He shuts his eyes and curses under his breath, shivering at the mental images he suddenly receives. He hadn’t been afraid of the little eight-legged freaks as a kid, but Pennywise has kind of ruined that for him.

“Okay!” A beat. “You sure you’re alright, Rich?”

“Yeah, yeah! Goodnight!”

He waits to close his door until he hears Bill’s shut with an audible click. Then he takes a deep breath and wheels around to find Eddie climbing back onto the bed, glaring over at him like this whole debacle was somehow _Richie’s_ fault.

“What the dick, man!”

“You fucking asshole! Do you usually start screeching the second you step into a room?”

“Do you usually sit on someone else’s bed in complete silence like a fucking lunatic?”

“Now you know how it feels, huh? All those times you nearly gave me a heart attack by climbing through my bedroom window after midnight! And the light was on, you unobservant—”

“Okay!” Richie sighs and drops his hands. He’ll get a migraine, at this rate. “Okay. Jesus.” He looks around to make sure there aren’t any other surprises waiting to make themselves known, stopping when he lands on Eddie’s suitcases stacked neatly in the corner. Of Richie’s room.

When he glances back over he sees Eddie shifting uncomfortably at the edge of the bed.

“I showered in here,” he blurts, scratching at his nose and the mark on his cheek, where there’s a scar that looks ten years old instead of ten-plus hours. Still really weird. “While you guys were gone. I got back and my hands hurt really bad and I was really sweaty, and I needed to just… get clean. But my room, the bathroom—my blood’s all over the floor and one of the shower curtains is gone and I knocked a towel rack off the wall and the fucking window’s busted—”

“Bowers.”

“Yeah, Bowers. And so I came here to use your shower.”

“And brought literally all your crap with you.”

“I wasn’t thinking, okay? I just grabbed everything and went into another room, and I didn’t even know it was yours at first until I saw one of those little microfiber cloths laying on the nightstand—”

“I’m always losing those damn things,” he grumbles, but then: “Why’d you stay? You could’ve grabbed your shit and—”

“You think I’m gonna sleep in _there?_ With a busted window in the bathroom?” Eddie purses his lips and shakes his head, like he could go on and on about why that’s a bad idea but doesn’t have the energy to do so. “When I woke up, I, um, I was alone. It was dark and quiet and I didn’t know what the hell was going on, and I just… didn’t wanna go to sleep and wake up alone again, alright? Is that okay with you?”

He says the last part with the usual biting attitude, although it doesn’t do much to hide the vulnerability of his confession. Doesn’t do much except make Richie feel guilty—for not saving him despite having a heads-up on what was going to happen, for leaving his body down there to rot like Eddie not being inside it anymore was a good fucking excuse, for making him feel like he needs to explain not wanting to be alone when all Richie wants is to handcuff Eddie to his wrist so he can’t ever go anywhere alone again.

For not telling him how he felt before and not telling him how he feels now.

It would just make things worse.

“Well. I’m guessing you don’t wanna share a bed with a naked guy you barely remember, so maybe throw some pillows on the floor—”

“ _Naked?_ ” Eddie hops to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. He doesn’t look as disgusted as Richie thought he’d be. He looks, um, _hmm_. Bemused? Certainly not _interested_. Richie might be sort of tipsy. “You sleep naked?”

“Not usually. I left my bag at the library and I don’t feel like going back for it, so I was just gonna sleep _au naturel_ tonight, but I’m guessing you’re too prude for that, even _if_ I sleep on the floor. Maybe I’ll skip the deep scrub for now. Like, quarry water’s surprisingly refreshing, Eds—”

“I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor, Richie. But I _am_ going to make you take a shower because you really fucking stink right now, and I can give you something to wear, I guess.”

Richie blushes down to his toes. He coughs to cover it up.

“Uhhh. I’m really sorry to have to break it to you, Eddie, but you are literally smaller than me. In every way imaginable.”

“Are you seriously making a dick joke right now? Just to be sure, that’s what you’re doing?”

“What? _No_ _ooo_.” He feigns a gasp. “Of course not! Get your mind out of the gutter, man! I was just saying, you’re _small_.”

“I’m 5’9! That’s _average_ height, you fucking giraffe! And Bill’s actually shorter than I am, and so is Beverly, and if you can’t see that then you seriously need new glasses—”

“I need new glasses anyway,” Richie says with a shrug, pointing to the break in his left lens. There’s still some flakes of Eddie’s blood trapped within that he resolutely ignores. “Might try to pick some up before I go.”

“Yeah. That’s, uh. That’s something we probably all need to talk about, but—” Eddie’s strides toward his suitcases are short but fast, and soon enough he’s bending over to unzip one of his overstuffed suitcases and searching very carefully through meticulously stacked outfits. “Here. Try these.”

“Uh, yeah, no. I’m gonna have to veto any and all of your little prep-boy polos.”

“Says the fucker wearing shirts the color of piss and shit.”

“I’m coated in it, too. So hurry it up before I decide to rub myself all over the bed you’ve invited yourself into.”

“Fine! Whatever. Here.”

A plain, pale blue shirt is thrust into his hands, along with a pair of dark sweatpants, pristine white calf socks, and briefs that are black and wool and incredibly tiny.

_Don’t think about Eddie wearing these and nothing else, don’t think about Eddie wearing these and nothing else, don’t think about—_

“What are these? Compression shorts?”

“No, _idiot._ They’re just, like, sport briefs? I jog sometimes and, you know, they help with chafing ‘cause I chafe, sometimes. People chafe! And they just—like, they kind of hold you in? Not really, but I don’t like just… swinging all over the place, when I’m moving. I mean, they’re not just for exercise. I like support and these have support—”

“Right. You wanna feel like someone’s cupping your junk all day. Got it.”

“No! I _don’t!_ And even if they _were_ compression shorts, those are designed to promote oxygen flow, which is obviously also good for exercising, so you just sound really fucking dumb right now, I hope you know that.”

“Sure, sure. But these are seriously… like, I’m kind of wondering if they’re even gonna fit me? Maybe I should go commando. I’m just worried about ripping through this flimsy shit with—”

“ _Trashmouth!_ ”

“—my massive wang.”

He’s not sure who cracks first, between him and Eddie, but it doesn’t matter because they’re both grinning like buffoons and laughing like chucklefucks, and Eddie’s cheeks are so red and his dimples are so deep and his eyes are all soft and crinkly and his brows are curved like he just might cry, he’s so amused. Richie’s only now noticing that he’s got some stubble on his chin and probably has all day, and he’s so fucking _beautiful_. Handsome. He’s amazing and he’s here and Richie loves him profoundly.

Eddie clutches at his shoulder, practically tugging at the stiff collar of his opened overshirt, fingernails scraping his neck, and when he looks down at where he’s being touched he sees the glint of a wedding band.

His stomach churns. His heart drops. Richie’s laughter fades, a fake smile stretching his lips to replace it as he slips away toward the bathroom.

“I guess I should get this over with,” he mumbles. “You better not’ve used up all the hot water.”

“Bill showered like ten minutes ago. Blame him if your balls freeze off, not me.”

“Now I’m kind of hoping that’ll happen just so I can blast it all over the internet. _Famous Author William Denbrough_ _C_ _an’t_ _W_ _rite_ _E_ _ndings,_ _D_ _oesn’t_ _C_ _are_ _A_ _bout_ _Th_ _e_ _S_ _tate of_ _W_ _orld_ _C_ _lass_ _C_ _omedian’s_ _Invaluable_ _G_ _enitalia._ That’d be hot goss, for sure. ”

“You’re so disgusting,” he huffs, sounding far too fond for Richie’s disaster of a heart. “And delusional. Not to mention too old to be saying shit like ‘hot goss.’ Don’t forget to brush your teeth!”

“My toothbrush was _also_ in my bag, so I can’t.”

“Richie!”

He steps into the bathroom and waves, chuckling to himself, perhaps a little too bitterly, at Eddie’s crossed arms and exaggerated frown, before slamming the door and shaking his head, trying to scatter everything that’s bothering him so he can have a sliver of peace. He strips his soiled clothing off and kicks them across the floor, sets the borrowed items near the sink alongside his glasses, and flips on the water to warm before moving over to the toilet for a quick piss, pondering his next steps now that the whole thing with It is actually over.

He can still make the dates in Reno if he books a flight for tomorrow (or in just a few hours, realistically). He can check his phone and answer one of the many calls and messages his manager, Steve, has no doubt left for him, and accept whatever deal comes his way because he’d bombed his last routine and then proceeded to vanish. The media probably thinks he’s spent the last few days getting high off his ass due to humiliation—as if he’s never been heckled before, _hah_ , he’s Richie Fuckin’ Tozier—instead of fighting for his life against every childhood nightmare rolled into one and _somehow_ ending up on top with the only people who have ever truly loved him. 

Or he can say _fuck it_ to everyone outside his mysterious bubble and drive out of Derry with only the Losers in his contacts, stopping whenever he feels like it or when he absolutely needs to, until he’s circling the entirety of New York City because he wants to be close to Eddie but not _too_ close, lest he have to _explain_. And he’s sure Eddie’s going to go home, after this. He’s got one place to live, not multiple, with a steady job he doesn’t need to travel all over the country for, and someone— _a woman_ —he’d left behind, who’d put a ring on it.

Richie doesn’t want to forget like before, but he could do without the worst bits. He wants to keep in contact with everyone now that they’ve all reunited, but he’s not sure it’s worth it. He doesn’t want to be the version of himself that thinks too hard, though he knows he might well and truly benefit from such a major shift in the status-quo, but change, even the good kind, is difficult to accept.

The water is scalding as he steps beneath the spray. It soothes his muscles, washes away stubborn specks of dirt, warms his chilled bones. He lets everything go, including himself, and listens to the hissing of the spray above his head and the gurgling of the drain beneath his feet, wincing when he turns and the pressure hits a sore spot on his back.

The irritatingly fragrant bar of soap he’d started rubbing all over himself slips from between his fingers to clatter noisily against the porcelain tub. He hears the door creak open before he bends to pick it up.

“Uh… Norman Bates, is that you?”

“If you’re seriously making a crack about my mother right now—”

“Oh, ‘cause of the whole _‘a boy’s best friend is his mother’_ thing? Nah, I was very obviously referencing the infamous shower scene, you uncultured swine, but it’s funny how your mind jumped to that part first. Hey, you know what? You kind of look like Anthony Perkins.”

“I fucking do not.”

“You _do._ _”_ Way hotter, but still. “It’s all in the eyebrows, compadre. By the way, ever heard of knocking?”

It’s incredibly difficult to ignore the fact that Eddie’s just a foot away, separated from Richie’s naked body by a couple of thin curtains. He faces the wall just to give himself some extra room to breathe—and so he doesn’t have to look at Eddie’s silhouette as he idly stands with his dick hanging out.

“I just came in to give you one of my spare toothbrushes.”

“Wait, wait, wait. _One_ of? How many toothbrushes did you bring with you?”

“In total? Four,” he replies, like it’s obvious and expected.

“Four?”

“I use different ones for morning and night, because I have really sensitive gums when I wake up and the one I use before bed is supposed to help prevent periodontitis, and I know I could just swap out the heads but I like having things designated for specific uses, okay? But they’re both electric, so I picked up a cheap pair at CVS before I left, just in case I ran out of batteries or lost the chargers. And for times like this, obviously. I brought you some toothpaste, too. But it’s my personal tube so don’t fuck it up and, also, put it back in my toiletry bag if you use it after me in the morning. And I don’t just mean throw it on top of my clothes, I mean unzip the correct bag and stick it in the—”

“Designated slot? Okay, sure.” He’s a little at a loss for words, but in the _best_ way.

“Okay. Good. You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, thanks. Uh, Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you… leave now?” Oh, he’s _so_ glad he didn’t accidentally ask him to stay. Good job, Big Brain! “I mean, this is all really fascinating, I’m not even joking, but I’m naked here, man. Buck-ass nude. And I don’t know how see-through these curtains are, but I dropped the soap—”

Eddie barks out a laugh. He tries and fails to cover it by clearing his throat.

“ _Right._ Sorry, uh, I’ll just. Right. See you… in bit. Okay.”

It takes Richie three minutes after Eddie leaves to start moving again, seven minutes to finish cleaning his hair and body, and then two minutes to climb out and towel off just enough not to soak the fresh clothes he hastily pulls on.

The underwear, surprisingly, is the least of his problems. They’re tight, which he suspected, but comfortably stretchy, unlike the shirt, which has sleeves that nearly rip against his biceps if he bends his arms at the elbows (he’s not being egotistical, it’s _true_ ), but that’s nothing compared to the sweatpants that are unapologetically high-waters on the beanpoles he calls legs. At least the socks are fine.

It’s not terrible. He’s absolutely worn worse. In fact, this just reminds him of his high school years, when he sprouted up too fast and too often, making it so that anything new barely fit him properly for no more than a few weeks at a time.

Richie brushes his teeth for definitely less than two minutes and steps into the bedroom, propping his glasses onto his face. He catches a glimpse of Eddie, who has changed into striped pajama bottoms and a v-neck tee, looking up with the beginnings of a smile. He full-on grins and rolls his eyes when Richie poses; feet wide apart, hands on his hips, chest puffed out.

“Think I should wear this to my next show? Might make everyone forget how bad I bombed the last one. Sex sells, as they say.”

“What, like _one_ ticket?” Eddie quips with a cute little giggle.

“Yeah, your mom—”

“Is dead! God, Richie, how many times do I have to tell you to let it go?”

He sounds more serious than he should. Not like he’s offended, he never really gave a shit about Richie roasting his mother twenty-four-seven, but more like… something serious is on his mind and he doesn’t exactly know how to approach it, and Richie’s antics are making it harder to decide.

So, being the emotionally constipated idiot that he is, or maybe just being a guy who’s tired of devolving into sobs every few hours, he pushes back with another ill-timed joke.

“Your wife, then. I’ll give her the private show.”

Eddie rubs his thumb across the ring on his finger, as if he’d forgotten he was married until Richie reminded him, and looks up with droopy eyes above circles that look impossibly dark in the shadows of the low-light. Richie watches him wet his lips and thump his fists against his thighs.

“I need to tell you something, about what I said earlier. But it’s weird and—and it’s private, I think, so.” Eddie inhales as deeply as he would if he’d had his lips wrapped around and inhaler. “Just listen to me, okay? Don’t say anything, don’t leave, just listen. Can you do that? For me?”

“Uhhhhh.” _For me for me for me_. He’d do anything for Eddie, what the fuck. He doesn’t like where this is going. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

Eddie watches him unblinkingly for a long moment, waiting for Richie to come to him, to sit next to him on the bed or kneel beside him on the floor or whatever, but Richie can’t move. If he gets any closer he might puke from anxiety and then ruin the moment, which… might be a good idea, if it gets him out of whatever this is going to be, but _no_. No. Eddie is serious and he wants Richie to listen, and Richie’s always been a talker first and foremost but he’s also always heard Eddie in a way no one else ever did, he likes to believe.

He stands stock-still with his arms held awkwardly against his sides, digging his hands deep into thin sweatpants pockets.

“So, the whole dying thing… there was more to it than I initially said. Kind of. Basically, after I thought about all that sappy friendship stuff and things went black, I didn’t see the—the Turtle right away, I saw… myself. My body, just laying there, bleeding out, and I knew—part of me knew I was dead. That I was floating there somehow, a ghost or a spirit or whatever, having some weird out-of-body experience, except I wouldn’t be going back _in_ my body. And I saw myself. And then I saw _you._ ” He’d said as much earlier, without context as to what he’d meant, if he’d seen Richie in the same place as Stan or if he’d dreamed him up because that’d been the last person he’d talked to alive. Richie clenches his jaw. “I saw you, Ben, Bev, Mike, and Bill, and you all ran toward me, my body, and I knew you’d killed It. And you were telling me that. You touched my face. And I saw you and them, and how they started crying and how you _looked_. It was—” Eddie huffs a humorless laugh. “It was so much like the time you read that one book, about the two friends who were supposed to be riding their bikes? One convinced the other to go swimming somewhere dangerous and he was stupid enough to do it ‘cause he didn’t want to seem like… like a coward. And then he drowned. You remember that?”

Richie does, very vividly, because he’d always accidentally put himself and Eddie into the story as he read along. Always worried about Eddie even as he continued to push him too far, knowing how stubborn his small friend could be, how he never backed down once challenged directly. Richie had read that book, _On My Honor,_ a few times, mostly because there were copies all over the school’s library when it first came out, but he’d stopped thinking about the story entirely after the horrors of 1989. When he’d almost lost Eddie for real.

“You looked like you did when you read that stupid book, I don’t know why I kept thinking that. But you just, it was like you were trying to hide it, the way you used to, and then… you didn’t believe it even though you knew it was true. And Beverly, she told you I was dead, didn’t she? I think it was her.”

“Eddie,” Richie whispers. Can’t help himself. Can’t live through that again. “What’re you doing, man? I know you need to work through some shit, anyone would, okay, I get it, but this isn’t— _I_ don’t, I _don’t_ —”

“You said you’d listen, Richie,” Eddie replies, clipped and gentle at the same time. “Sit down, alright?”

“Nah, no, I’d rather stand.”

“Fine.”

Eddie sighs through flared nostrils. He jumps to his feet, arms crossing over his chest. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Standing, what’s it look like? I’m not doing this with my neck craned back the whole time.”

“I could kneel, if you want. Make us a little more even.”

“Fuck you, Richie. _Fuck_ you. I don’t know why I’m bothering with this shit. You never take anything seriously, not even my fucking _death_ —”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, before he can stop himself. “Don’t _ever_ say that to me, Eddie. When you—I was—I couldn’t, _fuck_ , I _couldn’t_ —”

And, just like that, Eddie deflates. He shakes his head slowly, sadly, and holds himself at full height with tightly wound muscles.

“I know, Rich, okay? I know. I _saw._ You didn’t wanna leave.”

“Did you talk to Bev earlier? Telepathically? ‘Cause I literally just had this _exact_ conversation with her and, let me tell you, it didn’t go well. I know what I did. I know what I said. I don’t need a fucking recap. What do you want from me, dude?”

“I want you to listen! God _dammit_ , Richie! And I want to… thank you, I guess. For trying to help me, and for being there. You always were, no matter what bullshit came out of your mouth, and we forgot about each other for all that time but you were still there for me somehow. Like, you were part of me even when I didn’t know it. Jesus, Richie, I almost let you _die—_ ”

“You already said that. I told you it was fine.”

“No, you told me I was brave.”

“Because you are! You always have been. Yeah, you were a pussy sometimes, Stan too, but you were still as brave as Bill and Bev when you needed to be. And I think you’re braver than all of us after what happened down there. You’re a fuckin’ hero, Eddie, you know that?”

“But I’m always so fucking afraid. When you were in the Deadlights—”

“Who gives a shit? Being brave doesn’t mean you can’t be afraid, alright? It just means… at some point, the fear doesn’t matter, and you work past it enough to do something dumb, like save a useless asshole’s life! _Eddie_ , you joked about fucking my mom while you were spitting up your own blood. You said—you said when you were sitting there, after I left, all you could think about was how much—how much you cared about us. You were dying and you weren’t even _scared_ that you were, you were trying to make _me_ feel better. ‘Cause _I_ was terrified, Eddie. I still am. And _I’m_ the one who almost let you die, actually. I saw what was gonna happen and I couldn’t even—I couldn’t stop it, and I couldn’t—” _Couldn’t tell you how much you mean to me, even then, even now._ “I’m the biggest coward in the universe. Not you or Stan or some kid in a dumb book. _Me_.”

“You are not!” Eddie argues earnestly. He drops his arms to wring his hands together, but his gaze is piercing. “You’re _not_ , Richie. Why would you you think that? Come on. You killed Henry Bowers! You threw rocks at a giant fucking spider clown! You were gonna let yourself get fucking _crushed_ just so I wouldn’t be alone. You’re a lot of things, but—”

“Eddie, I’m pretty sure you don’t know me as well as you think you do, and you probably never did, so just stop. I mean it.”

He should be over this, he really should. He’s not exactly _terrified_ of people knowing he likes men anymore—things could be worse, _have_ been worse, and it seems mostly unavoidable at this point, thanks to fucking Pennywise and his traumatizing mind-games—but his love for Eddie? That all-encompassing emotion that’s been a defining quality of Richie for nearly three decades? It freezes him each and every time, with or without cause. 

Eddie gapes like he’s just been slapped.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

“I think you meant to ask ‘what the fuck _isn’t_ wrong with you.’ That’d be the shorter list.”

“Fucking shut up!” He reaches behind himself, grabbing something off the bed that his body had been blocking while he’d been sitting down, and throws it at Richie’s head. “ _Shut up_ and let me finish!”

Richie catches the offending item as it smacks him in the face, then shifts it in his arms when he holds it down by his waist.

It’s… it’s his leather jacket.

It’s discolored and damp like it won’t ever be dry again, smelling overwhelmingly like sewage and blood. It shocks a nerve, the one he swore had been severed, and sticks to his skin as if Eddie had coated the fabric in super glue before tossing it over just to make a point.

Eddie starts talking but Richie can’t look away from the jacket he’s holding against his chest the same way he’d held it against Eddie’s.

“I heard you calling my name. You wouldn’t let me go, they had to drag you away, and I heard you, the whole time, and I saw your _face_.”

He can see it now, too, Richie’s sure. Can see that he’s probably pale, sickly, embarrassed, angry, resigned. He finds himself wishing he’d gone back downstairs to face Bev again instead of whatever the hell _this_ is turning into.

“No one’s ever…” Richie won’t look at him, not even when there’s a pregnant pause; half purposeful, half calculating. He continues to stare at his favorite jacket in hopes that it’ll poof itself out of existence and take all his memories of the past twenty-four hours with it. “ _No one._ And I just wanted to tell you I saw what the whole thing did to you. Or part of it. Can’t say I really know what it’s like since I’m not the one who had to leave _you_ behind, not that way, but I… I understand.”

_No, you don’t. You seriously don’t._

“You’re not useless, Richie. Definitely an asshole, but not useless. And it wasn’t your fault. I don’t care what you saw in the Deadlights, what happened wasn’t on you. And… well, there’s more.”

“Oh, great. Of course there’d never be _less_ ,” he grumbles because it’s easier to push back the oncoming tears that way. A sincere Eddie always made Richie sappy. 

“Everything disappeared when that place started falling apart. Like, it all went black and I couldn’t see my body anymore, but I _swear_ I could still hear your voice, and that’s when the Turtle came in. I told you guys about that. And Stan, I mentioned him, but I, uh, he actually… spoke to me?”

“What?”

“The Turtle thing was saying something, I still don’t know what. My brain kept trying to work it out like ‘what’re you looking for,’ but I’m pretty sure… it can’t be. It _can’t_ , right? That’s what—what the clown would say, sometimes, so I couldn’t understand, everything sounded muffled and bizarre, but Stan was there. I think he heard what I was supposed to hear. Maybe the Turtle’s Jewish, too. Fuck, I dunno! Whatever. But Stan looked at me and he said—” There’s a crack in Eddie’s voice, but he doesn’t stop, just pushes on. “He said, ‘ _Eddie, do you want to go home?_ ’ And I just stared at him, I didn’t really get it. Derry’s not home anymore. New York, Myra, that’s never been home. The Losers are, but they’re everywhere, even when they’re here, you know what I mean? But I could hear _you_ , Richie. Calling my name. You never stopped. And so I said—I said, ‘ _Yeah, Stan, I wanna go home. Let me go home, please._ ’ And then I woke up and I was holding _that_.” He clutches the jacket closer to his body. “I honestly think that was the first time in my entire life I actually knew what home could feel like.”

It’s not what Richie wants to hear, not really, because he knows Eddie doesn’t _mean_ it the way _Richie_ would if he had the balls to say it. But it _is_ the ‘I love you’ he’d foolishly hoped for when he’d had Eddie’s blood all over his hands and face. Not in exact words, though still the way he figured it would be.

It _hurts_ to know that Eddie had been chasing him from wherever he’d gone, somewhere far outside the boundaries of this reality, but it’s a good sort of pain. The kind that reminds you what life is _supposed_ to be. This is more than he’s ever gotten from Eddie before, more than he’s gotten from anybody. His parents loved him (probably) in a vague, dysfunctional way, like they wanted to do more but didn’t know how and thus couldn’t be bothered to try; the Losers loved him through boisterous actions and ride-or-die solidarity and colorful words, all the things he gave of himself making a return in full; Eddie loved him with bickering and concern, soft moments woven between the scratchy lines of boys being boys and idiots having fun, and yet he’s telling Richie that it was _his_ visceral reaction that grounded him, _his_ voice that helped bring him back. Richie, as a person, that gave Eddie a home.

Eddie loves him—as friends, as family—and Richie is grateful for whatever he’s given. Because Eddie has always been his home, too. And _God_ , does it feel good to be back.

He bursts into tears like a hysterical little bitch, burying his face in the creases of the nasty jacket he’s going to burn as soon as possible. He doesn’t jerk away from the uneasy pats on his shoulder, that turn into hesitant rubs against his back, that turn into solid arms around his waist.

“I’m so sick of this bullshit,” he spits into slippery leather. “My life, this town, crying more than Stan used to when he was on his period—”

“Richie.”

“Sorry, just—” He sucks in a much needed breath and tilts his head to the other side to be sure Eddie can’t see his face. “I lost you. When you moved to New York, when I moved to Chicago. And then you came back and I lost you _again_ , under Neibolt. You _died_. That was _real_. And we lost you. And yeah, okay, some ancient Turtle deity brought you back, that’s amazing, praise Michelangelo or whatever, but you were _gon_ _e_ and that’s all I knew, that’s all I was gonna get to live with, and I didn’t know how. But now you’re back and I _still_ don’t know how to live with it because it’s freaking bizarre!”

“Richie, look at me.” He does as he’s asked, mostly because Eddie puts both of his palms against Richie’s head and forces him to turn. “I remember that, y’know? Not just down there, but after I broke my arm. It was coming at us and everyone was freaking out, _I_ was freaking out, and you grabbed my face and told me to look at you. I tried. I couldn’t, was too fucking scared, but when you were waking up and the thing, the thing that went through—I _felt_ —and I remembered you saying that to me, so I did it this time. I looked at you. When you wanted me to keep my eyes open, I looked at you. And when I was… dead, I looked at you. Fuck, I couldn’t look anywhere else! I don’t—don’t think I ever could, Rich.”

He makes a face at that, which he’s sure is super ugly, because what does that even _mean?_ He’s so confused. Jumbled and shaken, tender and unaware. He’s gotten soft in his old age, but maybe it’s not all bad. Eddie’s gotten a little soft, too.

Like, he’s still holding onto him, for one thing, so Richie pulls one arm out of the shorter man’s grasp to wrap it around him, simultaneously seeking comfort and offering it. He presses his nose against Eddie’s head so hard it hurts. Best pain he’s ever felt.

Then his stomach churns loudly, from hunger rather than disgust or despair, succeeding in shattering the moment that Richie would’ve preferred to bundle himself up in for the rest of his life.

“You need to eat.”

“Yeah, not really feelin’ it. And pretty much no one works here, so I doubt there’s any real food around.”

Eddie pulls away, though he keeps a hand wrapped loosely around one of Richie’s wrists.

“You know I, after everything, had to stop off for a burger before I even came back here to clean up? It felt like I hadn’t eaten for a hundred years.”

“Picturing you walking into a diner, covered in dirt and blood, asking for cow meat like a crazy fiend is… honestly hilarious, man. No one called the cops?”

“This is _Derry_ , Rich.”

“Oh, my bad. No one called Juniper Hills? Heard they have a vacancy.”

“No. I got a free burger, though. That was nice.”

“Right on, right on.” 

Eddie shakes his head, sighs through his nose, and tugs on Richie’s arm like an impatient child.

“I have some snacks I brought with me. They’re super unhealthy, but you puked up your guts earlier so I figure something’s better than nothing, at least for now. We should all go get some breakfast in the morning.”

“Before or after we find out what the deal is with Stan? Can’t promise I’ll have an appetite either way, but...”

Eddie frowns thoughtfully.

“I think he’s okay,” he says after a moment. “I saw him there and _I’m_ okay, so he probably is too, right? He has to be.”

“Makes sense,” Richie says, wiping his runny nose against his shoulder and shrugging. “As much as any of this shit does.” He can’t consider the alternative any more than he already has. Tucking the soiled jacket beneath his armpit, he claps his hands and rubs them together. “So, about those snacks… if they’re kale chips or something equally disgusting, I think I’d rather starve.”

“I already said they’re unhealthy! What more do you _want?_ ”

A lot of things, really, but Richie doesn’t quite have the balls to list them off. He stuffs his face to hide his feelings instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Eddie: is vague  
> Richie: is dumb  
> me: i love them)
> 
> This chapter isn't exactly romantic, but Eddie lives! Happy Valentine's Day. [Sorry to disappoint all of you who had really cool ideas about who would show up at the end of the previous chapter! It's just Eddie, but an ALIVE Eddie. Yay]
> 
> Also, this chapter is short compared to the previous one, but it's actually close to the length that I usually like chapters to be. When I write I don't make chapters I just break everything up later, and the chapters this time around decided to come at wildly varying lengths. Ah well. (how many times can i say chapters? i'll stop.)
> 
> The working title fic for like 2 and a half months was "god might be a turtle" because I knew when I started writing it that I wanted Eddie to say that line at some point. I really did almost name the whole fic that, but I absolutely /must/ use song lyrics always, so here we are. It's a chapter title instead. (and maybe a title for the universe if i ever write some extra add-on one-shots or something, but i won't get ahead of myself.)
> 
> Can you tell I love crappy dialogue? That's pretty much all I write. Sorry. I also apologize for any errors. No matter how much I edit, I always manage to skip simple mistakes. 
> 
> I had to add the Psycho reference, as one usually does. The set up was perfect okay. I also had to have Eddie somehow say the quote from the book that we saw Bill writing in Chapter Two. 
> 
> ANYWAY. As I've said before, we're firmly in fix-it territory now, so get ready for fluff and self indulgence and all that jazz. We get to be happy in this house! I really hope you enjoyed this part and that you'll enjoy what's to come, too. Thank you to everyone who is giving this a chance and especially thank you to everyone who is commenting their thoughts because it means a lot to me and makes all this extra worth it. Let me know what you think! <3
> 
> (Since I posted twice this week (wanted to get one out on Valentine's Day), I won't be updating until around 22nd-24th or something. Hopefully that'll give me more time to finish the epilogue, which has been like 98% done for a while.)


	5. Feelings and Shit

Sharing a bed with Eddie is… an event, even with nothing happening. It isn’t the first time they’ve slept next to each other. Hell, it might not even be the _last_ , as traumatized as they are now.

Richie can remember bits and pieces from grade school, when he, Eddie, Bill, and Stan would rotate between houses for playdates. The Kaspbrak residence was never really fun to be at thanks to Eddie’s mother, who would only let them come over between 10am and 12pm—but they’d have to leave by 12:15 because Eddie always ate at 12:30, and they could only spend an hour in the yard, if the weather was nice, and an hour in his room, so long as none of them were sniffling, and then everyone had to leave and that was that. Eddie hadn’t known better, at first. He’d get upset when Richie laughed at him for being such a mama's boy, when Stan poked holes in his schedule, when Bill sympathetically tried to tell him that it was a little weird but that it was fine too. 

And then Eddie started getting older and wiser and his temper started flaring and his energy spiked, and it was in fifth grade, Richie thinks he recalls, that Eddie had begged his mom to let his friends come over in the afternoons, to let them watch TV for one hour, even if it was a show she got to pick, or to let them ride their bikes into town and around the park when the weather was nice—never mind that, by the summer of ‘89, Eddie was lying to his mom about going to Bill’s house instead of heading out to the barrens to play in some nasty sewer water. Playdates were no longer a thing by that point, of course, and Eddie had basked in the freedom he tasted every time he stepped out of his own front door, steadily punching holes in whatever walls his mother tried to build around him.

Stan’s house wasn’t as rigid when it came to what they were and weren’t allowed to do while over, but the Uris family was still fairly strict. No shoes past the front door, no running inside, no food upstairs, no toys beyond books or action figures or puzzles in all shapes and sizes, no music other than what was already in their home collection, etcetera-etcetera. He could have sleepovers, sometimes, but only during the summer and everyone had to move the table in the family room so they could sleep on the rug in the center and then put the table back in its exact position come morning.

Bill’s house was different, before Georgie ever came into the picture as well as when he was too young to do anything but make silly faces at. They were allowed to play all over the house, minus his mom and dad’s room, so long as they didn’t touch the piano. They could throw a ball around out back and play _Trouble_ on the kitchen table and eat snacks that didn’t drip or stain on while sitting on the living room couch. They could sleep in Bill’s room, all four of them whenever Mrs. Denbrough was able to convince Mrs. K that Eddie would be perfectly safe, and Eddie had three blankets instead of a sleeping bag because those were somehow dangerous, and he’d be fine usually but sometimes Bill liked to sleep with his window open just a crack and Eddie would get cold and Richie, who’s father had a sleeping bag that seemed huge to such small boys, thought ‘ _I’ll share with him!_ ’ Because he liked to tease Eddie endlessly, sure, but seeing the tiny body of his good friend get all shivery in the night always made Richie feel sad. So he’d scoot over and unzip the edge, nudging Eddie with his foot when he freed it, and waved him in before the smaller boy could start shouting about being woken up. They’d sleep like that all through the night, usually back-to-back but sometimes face-to-face, with Eddie’s head pressed against Richie’s chest. And when morning rose Eddie would complain about Richie being gross for sweating in his sleep and Richie would joke about how he was pretty sure Eddie pissed his pants, and they’d start yelling and hitting each other, making Bill laugh and Stan glare, until Mrs. Denbrough came up to shush them because Bill’s dad was still asleep.

It wasn’t much different at Richie’s house, truth be told. His parents had cared more before he hit double-digits, during that short period of time when they happily paid attention to him and were pleased whenever Richie’s friends came around, even if they usually disappeared instead of hovering or checking in like normal parents might. But then Richie got older—more irritating, my extension; more demanding and needy and uncertain—and his parents couldn’t be bothered to care about anything he did, as long as he wasn’t causing mischief that could get him into serious trouble. So he’d have invite his friends home, every once in blue moon, and they’d spray each other with the hose in the front yard and do somersaults in the back (Eddie was the best, once he got coaxed into playing along), and they’d sing at the top of their lungs to songs Richie definitely shouldn’t have been listening to before sneaking cookies up to Richie’s room to snack on after they already brushed their teeth. Eddie and Stan would complain the whole time, both of them sneaking into the bathroom in the middle of the night to clean up again, and Richie would inevitably follow because if his old man had drilled _anything_ useful into his head as a child it was the _vast_ importance of good dental hygiene.

But it was at Richie’s house that he sometimes shared his bed with Eddie. The night never started out that way. Eddie would be on the floor next to Stan and Bill, using Richie’s sleeping bag in place of his scratchy woolen blankets, and he’d have a nightmare or an asthma attack or he’d get up to take a piss and would grumble about how much Richie’s floor hurt his ass. Richie would scoot over without a word and Eddie would climb into bed, and they wouldn’t end up facing each other like they usually did on Bill’s floor but Eddie’s heat at Richie’s back always made him sleep so contentedly that he’d wind up drooling on his own arm.

They’d do this over and over again, until sixth grade came around. It was an unspoken thing; too much, too weird, to sleep next to your male best friend. Who would want to at that age, anyway? Beside _homos_ —a word Richie had started hearing immediately upon joining Derry High School for those daunting middling. The only time you’d want to be hanging off your friends once you hit eleven, twelve, thirteen was when you were playing Marco Polo or wrestling around in a field somewhere. 

Richie knew this. He abided by this unwritten law… mostly. But his affections couldn’t be so easily dampened, especially where _Eddie_ was concerned. He’d bump elbows with Stan or grab his hand to help him up after they’d both get shoved down, and throw an arm around Bill’s neck or ruffle his hair, always soft and smooth and so unlike Richie’s own, but he’d shake Eddie’s shoulders to get his attention or pat Eddie on the back for the smallest achievements or throw gross things at Eddie’s face if they couldn’t stand close. There’d been a couple moments at his house, before the sleepovers faded, where he’d blink his eyes open and Eddie would be climbing into his bed, uninvited but not unwelcome, and they’d get all tangled up in the night but wouldn’t dare talk about it in the morning because he was always gone when Richie woke again, anyway. But then that stopped, too.

Which was _goo_ _d,_ a _relief._ That’s how it was supposed to be, since they were much too old by then to be sleeping next to each other in the same shared space. But then it was _bad_ because Richie craved it more than he should have and for a long time he didn’t comprehend _why_. That damn hammock at age thirteen had been a blessing and a curse, with Eddie once again climbing in uninvited whenever the mood struck, usually just so they could annoy the hell out of each other in new and exciting ways. And though they never slept while they were a mess of limbs in the swaying cloth, the atmosphere stayed warm and content all the same.

Sleeping next to Eddie _now_ has the same vibe as it used to, but it’s different in almost every other way. They’re not face-to-face like they used to be on the floor and they’re bodies aren’t a twined mess like they always were in the clubhouse. Instead, Richie’s facing the farthest wall and Eddie’s facing his back, and he’s got an arm wrapped around Richie’s waist and his crotch is pressed against Richie’s ass, and he _hates_ it because he _loves_ it, and also _what the hell_ _!_

He’d woken up like this, seized by a nightmare that bled into the dark until he felt short puffs of hot air tickle the hair at his nape. He’s taller than Eddie and especially wider, but he’s curled in a fetal position with Eddie wrapped around snugly him, _spooning_ him, which makes Richie feel unbearably hot all over. His body goes limp because even if this is too good to be true he knows it’s actually happening. If Eddie was awake he’d be kicking at Richie and rolling away to put the right amount of distance between them, he’s sure of it, but he _isn’t_ awake and he’s holding onto Richie, grip loose in sleep but somehow tight enough to feel deliberate and natural, and Richie doesn’t know what to _do._

He’s sweating because he’s nervous, his heart’s going a mile a minute because he’s scared, his chest expands with warmth because he’s happy. He should feel a little put-out by being the cuddle-ee instead of the cuddle-er, but somehow—regardless of what Eddie himself might be dreaming of, like lepers or sewer clowns or his monstrous mother and his carbon-copy wife or, you know, _dying_ and coming back to life—it still feels _right_.

Until he realizes there’s something half-hard and intrusive between his legs, filling him with shame the same way popping boners for Eddie always used to. It never happened that often, truthfully, and only usually while he was vulnerable and alone and his mind told him _‘you’re going to dream about Eddie Kaspbrak and you’re going to like it_.’ And, okay, there were perhaps a couple of times when Eddie had climbed over him for something or another and his dick thought _‘yes, now’s the perfect time to get excited, hope you’re not trying to hide anything._ ’ At least then he could blame it on his developing teenage body and confused adolescent brain.

Now? Well, he’s forty years old and he’s exhausted, and he’s both too big and too small for his skin. He killed a psychotic mullet-wearing asshole and _then_ he killed a psychotic clown-looking ancient Eater of Worlds; he watched his best friend, the secret love of his life, get impaled and bleed to death and _then_ he watched said best-friend-love-of-his-life return to the land of the living, and he’s such a fucking mess but he’s laying next to Eddie, pressed against him like they’ve spent two decades perfecting this little routine, and his dick just _doesn’t get the memo_.

Oh, you _aren’t_ supposed to get hard when the platonic, married best friend that you shouldn’t realistically know or love the way you did when you were thirteen in the 80s but still somehow do wants to sleep beside you because he’d rather not wake up alone after all the traumatic fucking things that have literally just happened to him? Ha-Ha! _Fuck you, bro!_

It’s pathetic that Richie can’t even readily recall the last time he’d had an actual, unmedicated boner. It’s _also_ pathetic that he considers lowering his hand in search of relief.

Richie closes his eyes and tries to think about anything other than _Eddie Eddie Eddie._ He shifts, stretching his legs out, and then Eddie stirs—

Richie’s eyes fly open and his body practically goes catatonic at the hardness he feels against his ass. And it’s………… _fine_. It happens. Richie is warm— _too_ warm—and Eddie’s used to sleeping next to someone, being married and all, and it’s probably indicative of a good dream, which Eddie fucking deserves, and so Richie takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it slowly out through his mouth and he closes his eyes again even though his half-chub grows fuller at the prospect of Eddie being hard against him, and it’s a terrible feedback loop he needs to get away from, stat.

He hears a cute little snuffle along with something incoherent groaned against his neck, and Richie decides to suffer through it because he can’t bring himself to disturb Eddie by trying to slip away. So he thinks of Eddie’s mom, which turns into thinking about Eddie’s wife (because _same thing_ ), and it effectively gets him soft after a few minutes of discomfort, more so through depression than the disgust he’d been aiming for but his ideas can’t all be winners. Whatever.

He’s sure he falls back asleep eventually, plunged into unsettling remnants of the Deadlights rather than the blissful blackness he’d been hoping for. It can’t be long before he’s aware again, however. Groggy and squinty in the early morning sunlight. He counts himself lucky that doesn’t remember what he’d been haunted by during those few meager hours of slumber.

Richie stretches his long limbs out unthinkingly, smacking the limp body beside him.

“ _Ow_.” Hoarse. Sleepy. “ _Asshole_.”

“Hmm.”

It feels too early to do anything, let alone articulate all the thoughts he might or might not be having. He needs coffee or alcohol or both. Maybe some food. Eddie’s late-night Cheez-It crackers aren’t holding him over so well.

This internal struggle is why he doesn’t realize Eddie is still plastered against him, a wonderful contradiction of soft and firm, until he suddenly _isn’t_ _._ He pushes himself away from Richie so hard he nearly shoves him onto the floor.

“Ow,” Richie parrots, the mattress shaking beneath their squirming weight. He squints over his shoulder, seeing nothing but blurry blobs without his glasses, but he’s at least able to make out Eddie rolling onto his belly, head turned toward the window. “What’s your problem?”

“Your morning breath. S’fuckin’ disgusting.”

“It’s probably your own breath, wafting back into your face,” he slurs, unable to stop the old joke from flying out of his mouth. Eddie makes him feel like a kid again, makes it all too easy to fall back into those familiar and sometimes dangerous patterns. He’d wince if he wasn’t too busy yawning. “Or does your special nighttime toothbrush make you immune?”

“You’re such a hack. No wonder you don’t write your own material, you can’t come up with anything new.”

“It’s just this town. Messes with me,” he grumbles, settling onto his back since Eddie’s determined to stay facing away. “S’like I’m stuck in a past I barely remember. But maybe that’s a good thing, right? Inspiration and all that.”

“Inspiration?” Eddie’s interest sounds piqued, but he refuses to look at Richie or even turn an inch off of his stomach. He’s starting to wonder if his breath really _is_ that bad, or if maybe Eddie’s _problem_ from the middle of the night was having some trouble disappearing. Richie shivers and decidedly does _not_ linger on those thoughts. “You gonna fire the thirteen year-olds you hired to make you seem funny?”

“First of all, fuck you. Second of all, don’t insult thirteen year olds. I was fucking hilarious at that age and you know it. The _so-called_ professionals my manager hired, they just… our styles don’t mesh. But it’s easier, y’know? Than starting over or, uh, putting yourself out there.”

“Richie, you perform on stage for a living. That’s, like, the _definition_ of putting yourself out there, or did you not notice?”

“Except it’s not really _me,_ ” he asserts, staring up at the ceiling and not seeing anything other than bland patches of color. He could put his glasses on but then this moment would become sharp, reality would set in, and it’s only because he’s just woken up and is still partially delirious that he’s even saying anything at all. Things are easier to ignore when they’re fuzzy or frozen in time. “You knew that right away, Eddie. Dude, c’mon.”

“Are you gonna talk about the clown and stuff? In your shows? Assuming we keep our memories this time. Once we leave.”

“Maybe.” He laughs, airy and short. “It’s not like anyone would believe it’s real, right? So why not? People already think I’m crazy. Might as well roll with it. And I can pretend it’s just… metaphors and symbolism and all that cerebral crap, maybe get some new fans.”

“Metaphors for what? The horrors of living in a small New England town and how fucked up it made you and all your friends?”

“Yeah,” he says simply, though there’s more, always more.

(Like the horrors of parents who cared too much and parents who didn’t care enough. And the horrors of bullies wanting you dead just because you couldn’t see and didn’t know how to shut your mouth, because you were sickly and small with a raging temper, because you had a stutter and a dead little brother, because you were a girl turning into a woman who didn’t get to control the way people looked at you, because you were new and overweight and sensitive, because you were Jewish and uptight and unreasonably sensible, because you were black and lonely with parents who were murdered just for being themselves.

(And the horrors of having your fears thrown into your face and being forced to confront them when you’re both too young and too old and never, ever just right. And the horrors of thinking one of your friends might have killed himself and another just died because of you and that you wanted to die, too, but the people who love you even after all this time pulled you out of the wreckage, and then facing the reality that, _thank fuck_ _,_ it might have all gotten reversed, but the pain is still as real as if it hadn’t.

(The horrors of being a boy liking other boys in a small New England town, being so afraid of what others might think that you kept it to yourself your entire life. The horrors of being a boy in love with another boy, your best friend, who just so happened to be sickly and small with a raging temper, and never being able to say the words even after you’d carved them into wood because you couldn’t let them out but you couldn’t hold them in either.)

“ _Yeah,_ ” Richie says again, strained with the weight of his thoughts. He reaches for his glasses the way Eddie would always reach for his inhaler, holds them in his hands instead of immediately slipping them on.

“Are you gonna talk about us?” Eddie asks quietly, _finally_ rolling onto his back. They’re staring up at the same ceiling, arms inches apart, and the moment feels loaded in a way Richie can’t decipher. He doesn’t let his eyes stray from the ceiling. “Like, the Losers. Not just… uh. I’m wondering what kind of bullshit I should prepare for.”

“Probably, if everyone’s cool with it. And as for bullshit… I dunno, man. We’ll see when we get there. I mean, I might not even do it. There’s a reason I stopped trying to put my own shit out there, believe it or not. Once I get outta here, who knows.”

“You will,” Eddie replies, no room for argument. “You’ll do it. I’ll get everyone to leave you scathing emails and texts and voicemails until you do it all yourself or literally die.”

“ _Wow_.” He breaks into a smile because he knows Eddie means every word he’s saying and that the only way it won’t happen is if he forgets it’s supposed to. “Seriously, wow. You want me to roast you in front of millions that bad?”

“ _Millions_. Pfft,” Eddie snorts mockingly. The joy in his voice is unmistakable. “And no, Richie. I just want you to be yourself, alright? That’s a thing we can do now.”

It hurts to hear because Eddie doesn’t know what he’s really saying—if he did then this conversation might be going a lot differently—but Richie appreciates the sentiment. They’re getting back into the danger zone of sincerity, though, so he slips his glasses on, plunging the world into startling clarity, allowing time to move forward once more.

“So what’s that mean for you, then? Gonna flush all your meds down the toilet? Unbookmark WebMD on all your devices?”

“Yeah, _no_ , some of those meds actually help me, smartass. Most of it’s OTC anyway, like Prilosec ‘cause sometimes I get acid reflux, and aspirin for tension headaches, but then there’s my inhaler. Or, well, I guess not. But, uh, I need Lisinopril for my blood pressure and Xanax for—”

“Do you use Viagra?”

“ _No,_ I don’t use Viagra, you shithead.”

“Do you _need_ Viagra?”

“Oh my god. Fucking _stop_ —”

“You’re dodging the question, Kaspbrak, which I’m going to say means _yes._ ”

“It’s none of your business, honestly, and I know you’re making a joke about my penis right now but did you know Viagra can actually help with pulminary hypertension?”

“No, I did not. But I’ll be sure to say that’s what I use it for next time a pharmacist looks at me weird.”

“Wait, _you_ use Viagra?”

“It’s none of your business,” he says with a grin that only widens when their gazes finally meet.

In truth Richie _has_ used the little blue pill before, had to pop one just to get it up the last time he’d told himself he needed to have some sort of sexual experience to feel _normal_ , but that was probably close to a year ago, by this point.

He’s not going to tell _Eddie_ that. There are far too many other things to feel embarrassed about.

Richie’s head is turned toward Eddie, hands clenched atop his middle, and he stares, smile slowly fading, while Eddie blinks his doe-eyes owlishly at him. He looks a little pink in the cheeks and—and his pupils look a little dilated, if Richie’s mind isn’t playing tricks on him. It reminds him of the boner he’d woken up to in the middle of the night, no Viagra necessary. _Not when it’s Eddie pressed against your ass, you fucking pervert._

“You’re blushing,” Eddie blurts, like he’s not _also_ rivaling a tomato. Richie has a good reason, which he can’t exactly disclose, and he wonders what the source of Eddie’s embarrassment is. “Trashmouth is _actually_ blushing. Oh shit, you totally use Viagra! I don’t want you to feel ashamed because it’s pretty natural for men our age, and there’s nothing wrong with it, there’s nothing wrong with _you_ , but also? You use Viagra, you fucking loser, which means you can’t say shit about me!”

“I don’t!” he shouts, half-laughing and half-crazed. “I don’t! I don’t need it! I mean, okay, so I’ve tried it before, but only ‘cause my massive wang is just… _so_ heavy, it needs a little help getting up—”

Eddie covers his face with his hands once he begins wheezing hysterically. And not the bad kind of wheezing, the kind where he’s so anxious and upset that he can’t breathe. No, he’s wheezing because he’s happy and amused and probably thinks Richie is an idiot, but what else is new? His body’s shaking so much that his hands don’t stay in place, which means Richie can see the way his eyes crinkle, the way his brows droop farther down, the way his lips part to show actual teeth, the way his dimples turn into massive creases.

He can see the scar on his cheek. The _scar_ , not mark, not wound. It’s healed, mostly faded, just a little pink and raised, courtesy of whatever Turtle magic brought him back.

“Sorry,” he gasps when he realizes Richie isn’t laughing. “I’m not trying to be an asshole. It’s just, the massive wang thing—”

“No, I know. I don’t care about… I was—I mean, your face. Like, the scar. Looks like it’s been there for years. Do you have—” He waves a hand in front of his own torso, trying to get his point across.

Eddie watches him for several seconds, laughter gone but eyes still shining pleasantly. His lips are set in a thin line, the bottom one tucked into his mouth like he’s got it caught between his teeth. Richie almost gulps.

“Yeah. There’s a scar there. I saw it in the mirror when I was cleaning up. It… it looks weird.”

“Nothing hurts, right? You’re all nice and healed up from that special Turtle mojo?”

Eddie makes a face like he wants to yell at him for being mildly disgusting, but Richie’s being genuine and he knows that and so he nods.

“I feel fine. My hands still hurt, though.”

He holds them up in the sunlight. Richie notices how bruised and cut they are, how his previously neatly trimmed nails are ripped and torn.

Eddie Kaspbrak had clawed his way out of his own personal hell.

Richie’s sinuses feel too tight again.

“We’ll get you some ointment or something. Can I… can I see?” he asks while twisting to lean on an elbow, bewildered by his own question. He looks down to make his intention clear.

Eddie, surprisingly, lifts the hem of his shirt without a word, exposing himself from the waist to just below his pectorals. His skin is pale and sprinkled with a smatterings of dark hair, and he has fucking _abs_. Not Ben’s level of muscle or definition, but still enough of an outline to be a pleasant surprise. _Focus_ , Richie tells himself, and it’s not hard to comply when he catches sight of the very thing he’d been looking for.

The scar is large, angrier in color than the one on his cheek, and spreads out from a jagged circle into thin, webbed lines. It covers most of his torso; barely visible, but still obviously _there_. Richie begins tracing the puckered seams without much thought, freezes when he realizes what he’s doing. Eddie’s palm covers his knuckles as he tries to yank his hand away. Richie stares up at Eddie’s face, heart thumping wildly, but Eddie’s gazing down at where their hands meet with a strange sense of wonder flickering in his expression.

The last time they’d been like this… well, a lot of blood had been involved. A lot of pain, both physically and emotionally. He feels almost as helpless now as he did then.

“It’s on my back, too. Obviously.” The point of impact. “It’s… I’m not a super vain guy or anything, but it looks bad, doesn’t it?”

“Not really,” Richie carefully replies. He means it, too. “It looks pretty good, actually. Be thankful you didn’t have to _actually_ recover. Would’ve taken months and been all gross and shit.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” Eddie says flatly. His hand doesn’t stray from where it rests atop Richie’s.

“I’m just saying! But you’re doing fine, you’re alright. And hey, scars are sexy, man. I bet, like, seventy percent of people think so. Or something.”

“Not Myra,” he grumbles beneath a sigh, not even bothering to comment on Richie’s terrible estimation. “She’s gonna have an aneurysm when she sees me like this.”

“So what?” Richie wants to pull away, but Eddie’s hand is so soft and his eyes are so warm and Richie is a weak, weak man. “You’re alive. That’s what matters. Everything else is just bullshit. You know what you should do? Tell her you’ve been like this the whole time. She’ll go crazy trying to figure out why she never noticed before, since they look so old. Really milk it for all its worth.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, looks away while he adjusts his head on the pillow. Richie feels like he should lay back again, as well, but Eddie’s fingers tighten around his, still pressed to his bare chest, before he can lean away.

“I dunno,” he whispers into the room. “ _I don’t know_. I just—I don’t.”

“Don’t know what?”

“ _Anything_ _!_ It’s all so freaking messed up. _All_ of it.”

Richie’s struck with an idea, then. A juvenile flight of fancy born from a memory of sleepovers and diners and strawberry milkshakes. He thinks he can do it, that he should, because Eddie doesn’t seem to mind being close and this is how things used to be, and he’s a grown man so why not? It’s doesn’t have to mean more than it should. He just wants to make Eddie feel better. Maybe make himself feel better, too. Just this once. They deserve it.

He pushes their hands farther up Eddie’s chest, which makes Eddie frown, but then he’s pressing a quick kiss to the uneven center of Eddie’s new-old battle scar with a flush creeping over his neck and Eddie’s stomach trembles beneath his chin when he pulls back. Then he stretches forward for another kiss, pressing this one onto the line marring Eddie’s cheek, lingering against the hollow despite knowing he shouldn’t.

“What, uh… what’re you doing?” Eddie asks slowly, wide-eyed, lips parted. There’s no real shock or upset in his words. Richie’s mortification remains relatively low.

“Making it better.” The _duh_ is implied. “My mouth’s a miracle worker, so now you’re all good. Nothing to worry about.”

The way he looks at Richie, with just a hint of a dopey smile, with an abundance of warmth… it makes Richie afraid of what his own expression might be giving away, because he knows it would be nothing short of _too much._ But there’s a sort of thrill that accompanies that fear, sparked in his veins by Eddie’s rare display of relaxation. He holds up the hand not bound to Richie’s, preparing to speak, pauses with a furrowed brow. Richie knows what he’s unable to find.

“You just noticed?”

“Yeah? I thought maybe all the swelling and bruising was just covering it up, but it’s… huh. It’s really not even there. You guys, too?”

“Bev showed us when we were walking back.”

He doesn’t want to say it stings a little to have such a familiar piece of himself gone, especially not after the shit-storm the whole thing had caused, so he shrugs it off like it doesn’t matter. They both know it does.

“I guess we did what we were supposed to.” Eddie stares at his palm until his gaze turns hazy. “I always felt queasy when I looked too long. Couldn’t remember how I got it, just like how I couldn’t remember where the fracture in my arm came from. I thought maybe I fell out of a tree, but that couldn’t have been right ‘cause why the _fuck_ would I have climbed one in the first place? It was always just like… I pushed it out of my head since I knew my mom would _never_ have let me do anything like that.”

“Maybe not in New York,” Richie chuckles, smiling wryly, “but you used to do crazier shit than climbing trees all the time when we were kids.”

“I remember _now_ ,” Eddie says breathlessly. His eyes are crinkling again and he’s smiling so bright, a mini supernova, and Richie can’t blink, afraid he might miss one second of this stunning view. “ _God_ , I felt so freaking insane sometimes. _You_ made me insane! I had my mom in one ear, telling me I was weak and delicate and I couldn’t do this or that because of this or that, and then you were in the other ear and you talked so much shit but you made me braver, and I wanted to do everything our friends were doing because I knew that I could, so why the hell shouldn’t I?” He sighs and wiggles his fingers, checking every angle and line to make sure the mark of their oath is, indeed, gone. “And all that just disappeared. Can you believe it? If we’d have remembered… _everything_ would’ve been different. And I guess I wish—I mean, I hated that thing.” He shakes his hand for emphasis, nose scrunched in distaste. “But I guess I would’ve rather it stayed? Just to be reminded. It’s over, anyway. That’s what’s important.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, offering a gentle smile when their eyes connect again. He laughs at what he thinks to say next. “Well, if blood oath scars are out then maybe we should all get tattoos instead. Start things off fresh with something like ‘ _Down with Derry_ ’ or ‘ _we killed that fucking clown._ ’ Real team spirit type of shit.”

“Yeah. Maybe. That could be cool.”

Richie’s jaw drops.

“Wait, seriously? You know tattoos involve needles? And strangers touching you in public, _with_ said needles? And that they’re pretty much permanent unless you get surgery? With _lasers?_ ”

Eddie shrugs, failing to bite back a triumphant grin. “Yeah, doofus, I _know_. I just don’t fucking care anymore. I’ll get a stupid tattoo if you get one.”

“You don’t care _right now_ ,” he stresses, trying hard to stop his heart from flying into overdrive at the prospect of he and Eddie forever matching in some way. Fuck, he’s corny. “Just wait until I bring it up later, we’ll see what you say then. And that’s follower mentality, Eds! Very unhealthy of you.”

“You’re a follower, too! We literally _all_ are, that’s why we came here!”

“Well, I’d follow you anywhere, so you got me there.”

It’s basically a line and Richie knows it, as does Eddie if the way he quirks a brow is any indication. It had slipped right past his filter—which doesn’t work ninety-five percent of the time so, really, what had he been expecting?—so he tells himself to play it off like everything else, circle it back around to Mrs. K for a stupid punchline _—_

“Good,” Eddie says before Richie can backtrack or, realistically, make a bigger fool of himself. And he says it like Richie should _know_ what that one word means, outside of its typical definition, and he says it like he’s _pleased;_ maybe by Richie’s sincerity, maybe by something else.

He pushes the tip of his tongue through the seam of his lips nervously, poking at a piece dry skin, and his whole body buzzes, mind going blank, heart jumping into his throat, when he witnesses Eddie’s lidded eyes tracking the movement.

They stay there for some time, suspended in their silence, prompting Richie to look down at Eddie’s mouth for _definitely_ too long, as if drunkenly out of his wits. There are always consequences to his actions, this he’s known since he learned how to speak, but when he sees the tip of a very pink tongue poke out to lick equally pink lips he can’t think of a single thing that could be wrong.

( _Let’s take our shirts off and kiss!_ )

His jaw twitches. A hand begins to rise, prepared to cup Eddie’s jaw.

“Hey, Richie?” There’s a muffled voice outside the door, which creaks open soon after, and then that voice is _right there_ and, when he whips his head around, he sees Beverly leaning against the frame. She’s in wrinkly silken pajamas, hair frizzing around her head like a crooked halo, looking happy and relaxed. 

“Have you seen— _oh_ _,_ ” she gasps, straightening up and stilling completely.

Richie turns away from Eddie, whirling around fast even though they weren’t _doing_ anything (his brain doesn’t seem to know this because it’s too busy screaming _WHATTHEFUCKWASHAPPENINGWHATTHEACTUALFUCK_ ). He scoots to the edge of the bed, ruffling his sleep-matted hair and avoiding eye contact. Beverly watches them with a smile that’s barely polite enough to mask the shit-eating grin threatening to break through.

“Found him,” she finishes with a glance toward Eddie, all peppy and knowing when she looks back over. Richie tightly grips the sheet beneath his thighs. She’s _wrong_ and he wants to say so but can’t without making things seem off to Eddie. He’d mentioned talking to Beverly about him, had to with the third degree he’d been getting before bed, but he never said what exactly she’d been implying along the way. He doesn’t want Eddie to know pitiful he really is. Then again, Eddie himself had been saying crap about how he saw Richie lose his mind after his death and that could be, probably _is_ , a red flag. Like… if Eddie felt weird about what he may or may not have guessed last night, staring at Richie’s mouth isn’t exactly the way to convey it. And then his face starts to burn because _holy shit_ , Eddie had been staring at his _mouth_.

Either way, Richie is content to live in ignorance for as long as he can.

“Uh, hey?” Eddie’s voice is borderline nervous as he props himself against the headboard, hastily jerking the hem of his shirt down to where it should be. “What’s up? Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, I just wanted to tell you guys to come downstairs. Mike and Bill were nice enough to pick us all up some breakfast. We should eat together, don’t you think?”

“Yes, mom,” Richie says with a roll of his eyes. He plasters on a cheesy smile despite Beverly’s ghost of a smirk making his heart race. “Oh, wait, Eddie! That’s _your_ line!”

“Shut up, Richie. And sure, Bev. We’ll be right there.”

“Don’t take too long, okay? Or I’ll eat all your hash browns.”

She shuts the door with one last infuriatingly glance, leaving Richie and Eddie alone in the room with whatever companionable trance they’d been enjoying now irreversibly severed.

Richie yawns, louder than necessary, popping his back and neck, and rubbing the lingering sleep from his eyes. He manages to smudge his glasses while doing this, so he takes them off and uses his borrowed shirt to clean them. He pauses after jamming them back onto his nose and jolts only a little when he notices Eddie standing halfway between him and the bathroom door. Richie hadn’t even felt the bed move.

“Well,” he begins, slapping his hands against his knees. Eddie regards him with a strange, narrow look. “I better grab some grub before the vultures swoop in. What’re you gonna do? Brush your teeth before we even eat?”

“No, I just have to piss.”

Richie hums and makes to stand. He’s halfway up when Eddie’s legs carry him over, his hands pressing onto Richie’s shoulders to shove him back down.

“ _Hey_ —”

His protest dies immediately when Eddie bends to kiss him, gently, sweetly, on the forehead.

“I’ve done that before.”

“Yeah.”

Eddie’s breath is his hot against Richie’s skin. It’s exhilarating until he pulls back to look down at Richie with a curious frown.

“But not this,” he says, and then he’s gripping Richie’s chin, nails scraping against the stubble that’s on its way to becoming a thin beard. He jerks Richie’s head roughly to the side so his lips can peck firmly at a heated cheek. “Right?”

“Uh, no. No, not…”Richie falters. He can hardly breathe. “I mean, _now_ you have, um—”

Eddie pats Richie’s bed-head, the motion stunted and awkward, as if he _hadn’t_ just kissed him on the face out of the blue. Sure, Richie had done the same thing to Eddie just a bit ago, but that was different! He knows his own intentions, but not Eddie’s, not like this.

But then Eddie, the little fucker, turns swiftly on his heel with no hint of an explanation and marches stiffly into the bathroom, kicking the door shut with a slam. Richie’s left in a stupor on the bed, feeling like he’s missing something vital.

*** * ***

Eating breakfast with the Losers is an odd affair. It is, all at once, like when they’d rise early to meet at the clubhouse, when they’d huddle around a bench in the park, when they’d sit on a curb outside The Capitol or lay in the grass near the quarry with a bag full of snacks and comics, or when they’d reunited at the restaurant with drinks and laughs and a niggling sensation of completeness—and yet it’s nothing like those moments from the past, either, because it’s all blessedly brand new.

Bev and Richie scarf their food down like they haven’t eaten in years, pieces of hash brown and bits of egg falling onto the floor during their attempts at stealing bacon from each other; Bill chews with his mouth closed and waits until he’s finished with each heaping bite before continuing to explain to Mike, who picks at his food politely but is somehow already on a second plate, what exactly the inspiration for his first novel had been; Ben wipes his mouth every few minutes with a balled napkin he holds in his fist, eating the greasiest of foods but pacing himself smartly as he listens avidly to Eddie recite, point for point, the intricacies of his delicately restricted diet while shoving two mini donuts into his mouth, causing his cheeks to protrude and puff like the world’s cutest chipmunk.

Richie tells him as much as he pokes his face, forcing Eddie to accidentally spit a chunk of chewed-up chocolate dough straight into Richie’s lap. He bitches about it for a full two and a half minutes, trying—and succeeding twice—to knock hard-won bacon strips out of Richie’s hands. Eddie’s wicked little grin is breathtaking and Richie gawks until Beverly raises a discreet brow at him, so Richie does what he’s known for and ruins the moment by picking the strip of crunchy meat right up off the floor to make a show of jamming it into his mouth and chewing exaggeratedly.

He feels like he’s won a prize when Eddie smacks him upside the head and launches into a serious rant about Richie is being _gross_ and _dumb_ and not at _all_ funny, often getting distracted when Ben asks him a question about his job.

They don’t talk about Stan. The clock’s ticking, counting off the seconds leading up to the call, to whatever news is waiting for them. Richie’s not sure if he wants to be hopeful or cynical regarding the whole thing, but he doesn’t think about it yet. He declines a smoke break with Bev in favor of putting on a show for Eddie, Bill, Mike, and Ben by doing various impressions he’d picked up over the years, including new versions of old goodies, relishing in all the hooting and hollering (and rambunctious jeering from Eddie) he receives. It might just be the best show he’s ever had, and he’s had some _good_ ones in the past.

They all turn quiet once Beverly steps back in, though, looking settled and steeled, phone in hand. Richie drops onto the floor, in the middle of Eddie and Bill, and glances between Ben and Mike as Bev retakes her own seat in the center

The monotone _brrrr brrrr brrr_ is too loud over the speaker, hits him in his gut each time.

“Hello?”

It’s a woman’s voice, the same one from before. She doesn’t sound devastated this time.

“Um, hi, Patricia Uris? This is Beverly Marsh again? I called the other day… I’m an old friend of your husband’s and I just—I was hoping you might tell me if there’s been any change in his condition? You said he was in a coma, last time, and I’m really sorry to disturb you, but—”

“Beverly, you said?”

“Yes. Beverly Marsh. I’m actually sitting with some other old friends of Stanley’s—”

“The Losers?”

Richie’s eyes grow comically wide as he peers at each body in their little circle, all of them frozen in anticipation.

“Yes, that’s… that’s us.”

“He’s awake,” Patricia tells them, voice crackling and muffled over the connection. She sounds heavy, like it’s hard to speak, but from joy this time rather than grief. “He woke up yesterday morning. He’s been mentioning your name a lot and his friends, the Losers, and he’s—oh, he’s alright! _Stanley!_ ”

Richie’s body sags against the couch in pure, unrestrained relief. He tilts his head back, one shoulder leaning heavily against Eddie, who smiles so bright his eyes are nearly closed. Bill makes a choked noise in front of him, tears streaming down cheeks, round with happiness, and Mike presses his palms against his eyes, upper body shaking with silent laughter. Beverly and Ben grab hands and hold on.

“ _We’re so happy_ ,” she cries. “We’re so relieved! We’ve just been—just been waiting and hoping. Patricia, if there’s anything we can do for the two of you, please, please let us know.”

“We’re okay, really, thank you, but… Stanley would like to speak with you. He just walked in— _he should be in bed!_ But—” There’s some murmuring in the background, too low to understand, but the voice is unmistakably Stan’s. They’d know even if his wife hadn’t told them he was there.

“Alright.” It’s Patricia again. She sighs, though it doesn’t sound too put-out. “I’m handing the phone over, but please don’t keep him very long. He’s been through a lot and—”

“Patty, I’m completely fine. I promise.”

“ _Stan!_ ” they all seem to shout at once, lunging forward like they might be able to send a group hug through the phone.

“Yes, yes. This is Stanley Uris speaking.”

He laughs, a melodious chuckle not unlike the rare ones he’d unleash every once in awhile when they were kids. It sounds almost the same, just deeper.

Bill sobs like a baby. Richie tries hard not to be close behind.

“S-Stan!”

“Bill, is that you?”

“Yeah, that’s blubbering Bill alright!”

“ _Richie_.”

“You got it in one, Stan the Man. God, that’s weird, huh? You’re _actually_ a man now. I thought for sure you’d grow up to be Big Bird.”

“Stan, how are you?” Ben says next, shooting Richie a grin while cutting in. “Are you, uh… are you all healed up?”

“Patty’s not listening, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Stan replies calmly, if a bit strained. “She knows something strange is going on. It’s obvious. The cuts on my arms—” There’s a hitch in his breath. Hesitance in admitting to what he’d done. “They’re, ah, scars now. Faded. Years old. That’s something you can’t ignore, and it’s something I probably can’t or shouldn’t explain, but I want to. Some time soon.”

“You want to tell her everything? Like, _everything_ everything?”

“Eddie?”

“Yeah, it’s me, man. Hi. Again.”

“Hi. Long time, no see.” He chuckles dryly. They share a collective glance, remembering what Eddie had said about the Turtle. “And yes, I’d like to tell her… as much as I’m capable of explaining. It’s over, right? It’s really over?”

“It is.” Bill’s shifted closer to the phone, placing his hand over Beverly’s so that they’re both holding it. “We made sure this time.”

“Good. That’s what the Turtle said, but it’s hard to believe, even now.”

“So, your wife…” Richie trails, already breaking into a grin. “Is she hot?”

There’s a pause. A startled huff. Incredulous looks passed around.

“Yes, Richie.” Unbridled mirth coats Stan’s voice. “She _is_ hot.”

Bill laughs the hardest, out of them all, the veins in his neck and forehead popping so badly that Richie thinks his head might explode. Richie cheers and Eddie tells him to shut up. Beverly looks two seconds away from beep-beeping him.

“Stan? Stan, it’s Mike.” The taller man hunches in on himself as he scoots forward, subtly enforcing a wave of calm despite his own obvious nerves. “I’m so sorry, Stan. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been more careful, more considerate, _something_ , I was just—I was so desperate. And I didn’t know, I didn’t think—”

“Mike.” Stan breathes heavily through the static. “It’s alright. I mean that. You did what you had to do. And I did what _I_ had to do. And I’d like to think that things worked out the way they were supposed to, in the end.”

“They did,” Beverly assures, kind and sincere. “Pennywise is dead. It’s all over. And we’re together again, all of us. Feels like our lives are finally starting, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I suppose it does. Or improving, at least. Listen, guys—are you still in Maine?”

“Unfortunately,” Richie drawls, though the pain and lingering fear of being in Derry is outweighed by the happiness he feels in the presence of his friends. Bill links arms with Richie and hiccups.

“I was thinking… maybe you’d like to visit Georgia for a few days? I know real life’s calling and it won’t wait, but I’d like to see everyone before you scatter again, just… not in Derry. And I’d like to introduce you to Patty. I know you’ll love her.”

There’s a brief moment of silence as the Losers consider what they should do. Richie hasn’t contacted his manager yet. Hell, he’s not even sure he _has_ a manager, at this point. One of those many messages might be a simple _so long, Charlie!_ But what’s so good about Reno, anyway? He can reschedule. Maybe. Probably. But he wants to see Stan, even if it means going to sultry ass Georgia, and, looking around, he knows the others feel the same.

“I’m free,” Ben says lightly, the first to speak. “I work from home most days anyway, so it’s not a problem.”

“I’m not going back to New York,” Beverly chimes in. “Not until after I get things started with my lawyer. Not just for the divorce but for the brand, too. So I’m ready to go. I could use a fucking vacation, definitely.”

“I’m in,” Bill confirms next. “I’ll need to call Audra. Uh, my wife. I won’t be able to stay long, the shoot’s been postponed but it’s still in the works—oh, hey, maybe she can meet us there? We had a good talk last night. She doesn’t know… anything about anything, not about us or Derry or even… or even Georgie, but I think I should tell her. Some of it. I think it needs to happen, if things are gonna work.”

“You’re more than welcome to invite her, Bill. Who else is coming?”

“I am,” Mike says with a grin. “I’ve been here my whole life. I think it’s about time I start seeing the world. And Georgia’s as good a start as any. I hear it’s beautiful this time of year.”

“The internet’s full of liars, Mikey,” Richie says with a cluck of his tongue. “Well, I guess that means I’m in, too. Can’t be left out, you know? You losers would be lost without me.”

“No, you’d be lost without _me_ ,” Eddie corrects smugly, leaning into Richie’s space to get closer to the phone. “So of course I’ll be there, Stan. Looks like we all will.”

“I can’t wait. Really, I—” Stan clears his throat, attempting to get his emotions under control. His excitement has Richie smiling until his cheeks hurt. They’ll be whole again, soon. Lucky Seven. “Take your time getting here, I know things are pretty heavy right now, but also may I request that you hurry a little? I’d really like to catch up while we can. There’s a lot we missed out on.”

“You’re telling us,” Ben says softly.

“Sure, Stan.” They nod in unison to Beverly’s agreement. “We’ll get there as soon as we can. Text me your address, okay? And anything you might want us to bring.”

“I will. And thank you, again. Just… thank you. I’ll see you guys soon.”

There’s a chorus of “ _bye, Stanley_ ,” with a couple shouts of “ _see you, Stan the Man_ ” thrown in, and then Beverly’s phone lights up, signaling the end of the call, and Richie instinctively (nosily) stretches over to see what her wallpaper is.

Is he surprised to find a picture, most likely taken last night, of Bev and Ben in their pajamas, cuddled together in their shared bed? No, no he is not. He gasps like he is, though, and Bev snatches her phone away, face as red as her hair. Ben’s isn’t much better.

Richie whistles.

“Leave them alone, Rich,” Bill chastises, but he winks when the others look away. “I’m gonna go call Audra. Who wants to try booking us a flight?”

“Uh, _flight?_ ” Eddie repeats dumbly, twisting around so he can spread his legs, kicking Richie’s thigh in the process. Bill scuttles away before he can get chewed out. “Are you fucking kidding me? No. No way! Airplanes and airports are breeding grounds for diseases! Haven’t you ever looked into this shit? Human hands can hold thousands of bacteria at a time! And airplanes are full of humans! They cough and sneeze and fucking _breathe_ in this tiny, confined space, and they touch everything _everywhere_. You can get E.coli or influenza or—or listeria! Think about it! Airplanes are basically petri dishes, okay? And then there’s other annoying shit, like body odor and aisle seats, and people bring their crying infants on board and change their shitty diapers right there, for everyone to gag over, and First Class is just as bad, honestly, since it’s full of assholes who stink up the whole section with weird perfume and cologne, so it smells like fucking rosewater and alcohol the entire time. And the bathroom, _oh god_ —What about the pilots? What if they’re drunk? Statistically it’s very rare, I know that, but did you not hear about the—”

“Whoa, Eddie, c’mon. Cool it, alright?” He turns on Richie, fire in his eyes, lips ready to begin flapping again, but Richie nudges his leg with his foot and shakes his head. “What do you want us to do? Drive?”

“ _Yes!_ I mean, you guys can fly if you want, but I can drive myself. It’ll only take a day, probably less if I keep a steady pace—”

“Dude. You crashed your car, and you want to _drive_ to Atlanta?”

“Oh, fuck off, Richie! I ran _one_ red light, fucking sue me, and I wasn’t exactly in the best mindset! I’m actually an excellent driver. And if you weren’t such an idiot you’d understand that _driving_ there is way better than risking your health and sanity just to cut back on some travel time!”

“I’m on planes all the time, Eddie. I live in fucking Chicago, man, and I stay in LA more often than not. If I was gonna drop dead from contagion, it would’ve happened by now. I probably have, like, super immunity or some shit.”

“Look, I’m just telling you—”

“Do you seriously never fly? Have you _never_ flown?”

“I’ve done it once and that was more than enough, Richie!”

“Alright, alright.” Ben’s voice rises above theirs. He waves his arms in placation. “No planes. We can deal with that.”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine. Maybe even fun!” Bev’s eyes shine. “We can rent an SUV so all of us fit, and we’ll switch drivers every few hours—”

“Sounds like a roooooadtriiiip!”

Eddie laughs at Richie’s singsong exclamation, his sour mood replaced by genuine excitement at the prospect of doing something they’ve never gotten to do before, together, and probably just as pleased to be getting his way.

Richie is also excited, usually is when it comes to traveling. He’d hitchhiked around Illinois when he was just getting started and only had a backpack of personal items to his name after his truck broke down for good, shared cabs with horny friends he’d made in a community college drama class because being the third wheel was better than paying a fare he couldn’t afford, sat in the passenger seat of his manager’s car with three writers in the back trying to get his attention while he fidgeted with the radio and drowned them out, curled up in the backseat of limos with a bottle of bourbon in hand as he made a fool of himself in front of the entourage of famous “friends” lined up in front of him. All of those things had a sort of novelty about them, but he knows right now that none of it could ever top what he’s about to do. He’d never gotten to go anywhere with his fellow Losers, not back then when they’d been caged within Derry’s magical fences and certainly not after, since they couldn’t remember each other once they’d gotten free.

It’ll be a different story this time.

“We’ll need snacks,” Eddie informs them as he stands, brushing his palms against his striped pajama bottoms. “Richie ate the rest of mine last night, so I think it’s only fair he buys them.”

“You didn’t even have enough to feed everyone! It was _one_ box and you ate at least a quarter of it, but fine. Sure. I’ll buy the snacks, which means _I_ get to choose what they’ll be, no input from the peanut gallery. I need to stop by my car first, for my wallet and phone and shit.”

“I’ll take you,” Ben readily offers. “I was thinking it’d be nice to pick up a gift for Stan and Patricia, so I guess we’ll be shopping buddies.”

“I’ll see about renting us a car. I doubt Derry has much of a selection, but we need a vehicle with plenty of space and good mileage. Hopefully something that doesn’t need a deep cleaning before we even get out of here.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Bev asks, quirking a smile. Richie eyes her suspiciously. She ignores his glare.

“Yeah, no, that’s fine. Leave in an hour?”

“Mhm.”

“What about you?” Richie nudges Ben’s stomach with an elbow. It’s rock-hard and makes him a tad depressed. “I can be ready in ten if you wanna get this over with.”

“Fine by me. Mikey? Got anything on the agenda?”

Richie had almost forgotten about him for a moment, but then the taller man sighs, reaches up to rub at his forehead, and shrugs.

“I should probably get things settled at the library. Pack a bag. Act like I don’t know anything about how Henry Bowers ended up dead where I work and live.”

“No one’s gonna care, Mike. They probably already wheeled his body out to the—Oh, shit, _fuck_ , wait! My puke!” Eddie groans in disgust. “They’re not gonna test that shit and find my DNA, right? If I end up in prison after all the hell I’ve been through, I fucking _swear_ , one of you better bust me out. Just don’t call my manager. He’ll drop my ass if he hasn’t already.”

“Jesus, Rich. You have enough money for bail, don’t you? You’re gonna be fine. _Cool it_.”

And, okay, that last bit from Eddie was clearly supposed to be mocking, but the advice itself is good enough. No one around is going to investigate the guy who this town (rightfuly) believes to have caused do much strife. So he huffs out a breath and starts heading for the stairs, cuffing Eddie on the back of the head as he goes. He snickers when small, insistent hands shove him into the railing.

Despite reaching their door at the same time, Eddie lets Richie go through first, lingering near the wall after he shuts it behind them, merely watching Richie as he shifts from foot to foot.

He doesn’t have any clothes to change into yet, so he opts to brush his teeth and splash his face with water, using his fingers to comb his matted hair into something presentable. The crack in his glasses makes it seem like there are two Richies when he looks in the mirror, if he angles his head just so, and then two _Eddie_ _s_ when he pops in behind.

“Jesus, man!” He bangs his knee against the cabinet. “Ow! What the fuck?”

“You didn’t shut the door,” he explains breezily, squeezing in past him to perch himself on the ledge of the tub, shoving the curtains away like they personally offend him.

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, can I use your phone? I left mine—”

“In your car. Yeah, sure, but hey, were you trying to leave again, before we all met up with Mike? When I was getting stabbed in my fucking face?”

“Uh…”

“Because you weren’t there then and you wouldn’t say where you were after, and it’s starting to sink in that all your stuff ended up in your car even though I saw you bring it back here before we wound up at the clubhouse. So… what the hell, Rich?”

Richie swallows and looks away, dodging his own reflection as well as Eddie’s gaze. He doesn’t sound mad, at least. Slightly amused and a little more than slightly annoyed, but not angry.

“You and me, we were the leaders of the _Let’s Fucking Bounce_ club, if you remember, so—”

“Yeah, before we decided, collectively, to stick around and do what needed to be done. I was with you, buddy, but were you seriously gonna leave without even telling us?”

“Ben and Bev knew. I told them I was leaving and Ben tried to give me a pep talk, and it was pretty good, not gonna lie, but everything was just… _ugh_. I told him I’d stay and then I slipped out the back door.”

“Alright, then without telling _me?_ ”

It shouldn’t hurt him, it happened so long ago now, _so_ fucking long ago compared to everything else. They’d gone into that house regardless of Richie’s previous decisions, all the way down into the sewers, and they’d killed the clown and Eddie had died and come back to life, and Richie had been there for it all. So what the hell does it matter? But the way Eddie says it, like he’s shocked and saddened by such a revelation, like he’s _disappointed…_ it _does_ hurt.

“Eddie, I didn’t even know you were back at that point. I just, I had to get the hell out of here. All that token bullshit, it messed with my head, and it doesn’t even matter anymore, alright? It was all fake. And I came back, obviously. I went to the library like we were supposed to. I fuckin’ killed Henry Bowers, man. And I helped kill that piece of shit clown. It’s all over, right? So what’s it matter?”

“It matters because you were just gonna go! Without saying shit to any of us, to _me!_ What if you’d gone through with it, huh? What if you left and—and I really did die down there, I mean like for _real_ _._ What if it stuck?”

“Eddie...”

“You wouldn’t have been there. I would’ve… I wouldn’t have gotten to see you and it would’ve been just another fucking regret, and I know that’s selfish of me— _me_ , of all people, who was too fucking scared to grab a knife even though it meant saving your life—but, I mean, I dunno. Maybe I wouldn’t’ve even gone down there with everyone. And then I’d have to live with myself being the world’s biggest asshole, and if Bev or Ben or Bill or Mike died then it’d be my fault, and yours, and I dunno. I just—I’m kind of upset that you were seriously going to leave me behind. I know you don’t owe me anything and you’re right, it _is_ over and it doesn’t really matter ‘cause you came back, we did it, but… I guess it kind of just hit me, what could have happened, and I needed to get it off my chest. And I need to know you won’t do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie says hoarsely gripping the counter until his knuckles turn white. “I really am. I told you I was a fucking coward, man. I just couldn’t take it. You have no idea what that thing kept showing me. What it said to me. And maybe that’s not a good excuse, okay, I get that, and all of us have shit that cuts deep, none of us wanted to be here, but Eddie, it’s _me_. It’s my _life_. It’s not something that _happened_ to me, it’s something that _can_ happen to me, still, _because_ of who I am. Me just fucking being _myself_. And I couldn’t take it. I just kept thinking, if I was gonna die then it sure as shit wasn’t gonna be in Derry. But I won’t leave again, okay, Eddie? Of course I fucking won’t. I’m not—”

“Hey. Richie.” Eddie whispers, leaning far enough forward that he almost slips from the ledge, but his fingertips brush against Richie’s arm and when he doesn't pull away that hand pries one of his off of the counter in order to tug him closer.The gesture shakes him into forgetting the fact that he’d almost exposed himself entirely during that little rant. “What was it, then? You went to The Capitol, what’d you see?”

“Eddie,” Richie all but wheezes. “The ritual was bullshit.”

“Yeah, but what we saw still matters.”

“Then go ask Ben!” he shouts, flinches at his own volume, but Eddie doesn’t so much as blink. “Or Bev or, shit, I’m not doing this right now.”

“I saw the leper.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbles, thinking back to when Eddie had saved their asses by telling them about how he nearly choked that motherfucker out. “I know you did and that fucking sucks, but—”

“I saw it after I broke my arm too, you know?” Eddie continues swiftly, forcing Richie to stop. “Before we went to get Beverly. I couldn’t talk to you guys, my mom would only let me go to Keene’s and back. I was there for my inhaler, like always, and Greta was being a bitch, like always, and then I heard… I heard my mom calling me from the basement.” Richie allows his arm to go limp in Eddie’s grasp once he realizes something new is being said. He’s never heard this story before, and Eddie looks very much like he doesn’t want to be telling it, but he does so anyways, comfort be damned, and all Richie can do is listen. “Which is weird, right? It makes no sense and I know I knew that, but I heard her voice and it freaked me out. I had to be sure. So, I went down there. It was _disgusting_. I thought I was gonna puke and I couldn’t breathe right, and there were needles and blood bags and broken glass all over, and she kept _screaming_ at me. I pulled this curtain back and there she was, my mother, strapped down, and she said something was gonna get her. It was gonna infect her. And it started coming towards us, chained to the pipes, and it was covered up but—but the cover fell off and then there _it_ was, that fucking walking infection, and it kept coming. I couldn’t do it. I _couldn’t_. I had to get the fuck away. She said she always knew I’d leave her, and I _did_.” He looks like he means that more than just literally, but Richie refrains from asking. “I left her there and the leper broke free and it fucking—it shoved its tongue in her mouth, and I ran as fast as I could.” He takes a breath when Richie squeezes his hand, offers a tired smile before looking away again. “I know it’s not real anymore. And I knew it then because she was in front of the TV when I got home, and she wanted to take me to the hospital again because I looked like I was having a fucking conniption or something, but I convinced her to let me sleep it off, but really I was just trying not to think about what it meant. Like, it was obvious. Disease. AIDS. Rotting from the inside. I didn’t know I wasn’t _sick_ yet. I didn’t know I was normal. I thought—

“But I saw it again, when I went to get my token. I went down to check, I had to be sure, and she wasn’t there anymore. Not my mom, not Myra, but the leper was. And it tried to stick its tongue down _my_ throat, and that’s when I wrapped my hands around its neck and _squeezed_. I wanted to kill it, Richie. I wanted to kill it so bad. I wanted it to leave me alone.”

“Hey, you did, Eddie. The clown’s dead, alright? You killed that fucker.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I know. But I thought I was winning and that’s when it puked on me. Like I couldn’t escape. Like, no matter how much I fought against that _thing_ trying to infect me, it didn’t matter ‘cause I was gonna get smothered by it anyway. In the sewer, in the pharmacy, in my own fucked up mind. And I thought, I mean… It wasn’t just disease, was it? I was afraid of contracting something that could kill me, but I was already sick, in some way. I was already _infected_ but I didn’t want to believe—””

“No, you weren’t.” Richie pulls his hand from Eddie’s grip to place it on his shoulder, knuckles grazing the side of his neck when he gives him a shake. “You weren’t ever sick, Eddie. I told you. It was all in your head. She put it there and, sorry if this offends you, but your wife’s exactly the same, isn’t she? You’re _not_ sick. You’re _not_ weak. You’re fucking brave and amazing and—” _I love you so, so much._ He shoves the confession away, bites down when it’s on the tip of his tongue, swallows his coppery saliva before adding, “You’re fine, okay?”

“I _know_ I am,” Eddie replies, frustrated, and he sounds like he means it, although he looks a little terrified when turning to face Richie head-on, cradling Richie’s free hand to his stomach. Such close contact is making him lightheaded. “I wasn’t sick and I’m _not_ sick, this… it’s _not_ an infection, but I always thought it was, back then. Before coming back here. And I think the leper—I think it was more than what I wanted to acknowledge at the time. I think it freaked me out so bad because I didn’t want to know what it really meant, even if I really always knew it was more than what I understood.”

“I… Okay?”

He’s confused, he’s sure his face shows it, but he’s not exactly following along seamlessly and he won’t pretend that he is.

“Do you know what I’m saying?”

This is an important moment. The way Eddie tilts his head forward, sweat beading at his hairline, chest heaving with small, rapid breaths; Richie knows there’s something going on here and he feels fucking stupid for not being able to recognize it, but he’s so wrapped up in his own shit—wrung dry by too many emotions, left desperately insecure by the vulnerability of it all—that he can’t see what Eddie’s trying to show him.

“I don’t… know?”

“Richie,” Eddie sighs. And there’s disappointment in the word, in that one utterance of his name, and it crushes Richie in ways he’s always tried to avoid. Eddie shakes his head and Richie blinks. “Okay. Okay, what—what did you see when—”

“No. Nope, Eddie, I’m not talking about this. Seriously. Maybe… maybe someday,” he says roughly, unable to clear his throat. “But not right now.”

Eddie’s nod is thoughtful. He keeps Richie’s hand in his and shrugs.

“What made you stay? Can you tell me that?”

He smiles, not as wobbly as he once would have, and huffs a laugh.

“It was Stan, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was on my way out and I kept telling myself I was doing the right thing, and I was driving by the synagogue and…” He shakes his head because even now he isn’t sure what exactly had compelled him to stop. “There was a sign out front.”

“A literal sign? Or like, the whole figurative “give me a sign” thing?”

“No, an actual, physical sign. On the wall. And it said they were gonna pray for Stanley, and I didn’t even know what I was doing until I was already inside. The place was still empty. So I just sat in one of the pews and remembered. The last time I’d been there was for Stan’s bar mitzvah.”

“That’s right! _Fuck_. You were the only one of us who got to go.”

“I never told you guys what he said during his speech, did I? Things just got so crazy after, it never seemed important enough to bring up. And Stan never talked about it, either, but…” He smiles at the memory again, no hint of grief in the creases on his face. “He went off on this whole tangent and said _fuck_ in front of his dad. In front of everyone.”

“What?” Eddie cackles. “ _Stanley?_ No way.”

“Yes way.” Richie laughs, too. It feels like they’re kids again, sitting in the grass, talking shit about their friends on one of those rare _off_ days when no one could really hang out. Somehow Richie and Eddie could usually find a way. “The entire room was scandalized. I got up to clap—”

“Of course you did.”

“—But my mom made me sit back down. I found him in that alley next to the pharmacy a couple hours later, sitting in front of the Bradley mural. He looked pretty damn pleased with himself, didn’t even roll his eyes when I told him congrats for growing a pair and truly becoming a man. It was what he’d said, though. I could hear it in my head. Over and over. Like I was right back in that moment.”

“So, what was it? What made you want to stay?”

Richie’s lips part, the answer rising without thought, until he’s distracted by a thumb brushing across his knuckles. His throat closes as he’s hit by the tenderness of the action. They’d never been like this before, not really. Not as kids. They were too loud, too boisterous, too jittery, too much. They’d share a bed, sometimes; press together in the hammock; pat each other on the back; nudge, push, kick. Hug, if the mood struck. There’d be times when their fingers brushed, like when Eddie was handing over an ice cream cone or when Richie was sliding him an arcade token after he’d finally convinced Eddie to play _one_ stupid game, or when he needed to borrow a pencil in class or when Eddie yanked a comic from Richie’s grasp.

They’d been soft in the way that little boys were, sweet in whatever way annoying teens could be, but now they’re older and Richie doesn’t think he can just ignore it the way he used to by shoving it so deep down he never had to think on it too long, until he’d left and never had to think on it at all. There were remnants, of course. The ache in his chest that said ‘ _you’re missing something._ ’ The thrill he got when people accepted his banter and shot it back at him with just as much vigor. The flush he’d feel whenever he had to hunch over to kiss someone with perfect dark hair and shimmering dark eyes, and how it was good and wrong and not enough no matter what, never really what he wanted.

And Richie’s probably delusional, but he’s starting to feel like—especially when the hand not holding one of his own comes up to brush a curled strand of hair away from his forehead—maybe this _is_ deliberate. Like maybe everything Eddie’s been _doing_ is deliberate. Like forcing himself to talk about icky feelings because he knows Richie is suffering, like touching him more because he knows they both need the comfort, like getting him alone just so he can listen and look and lecture because it’s been a long time but they were best friends, once, and that never stopped, it never could, it never will.

Maybe it’s deliberate in another way, too. His heart speeds up at the thought. It _can’t_ be, but _G_ _od_ , he wants. _He wants, he wants, he wants_.

Richie scratches at the thick stubble on his face, the usual insecurity rearing its ugly head when he locks eyes with Eddie again. He pushes past it.

“He said he was a Loser. That he always would be. And I thought, well, _yeah_. That’s why I came all the way out here after one terrible phone call. It’s why you did, and Bev and Ben and Bill. It’s why Mike made himself stay. And Stan… I wanted to leave before shit could get worse, and I tried because I’m an asshole, and that’s when it really hit me. What being a Loser actually means. I never wanted to go through any of this shit, not then and not now, and I tried so fucking hard both times to just get away, however I could. But this whole shituation—”

“ _Really?_ ”

“—has always been bigger than me. It was bigger than any one of us, but if we were together then we were bigger than all of it. And I didn’t wanna die in Derry, but I guess I didn’t wanna die alone either, and I figured I’d rather go down fighting next to you guys, in some kind of screwed up blaze of glory, instead of just, I dunno, drinking myself to death or whatever.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up his crinkly forehead.

“Wait, you have a drinking problem? You’ve been boozing since we got here!”

Richie snorts.

“I used to. Or, well, _kind of_ used to. It’s still—wait, whatever, you insensitive little shit. _Not_ the point.”

“Fine. Sorry. Go on.”

“I mean, I came back and we did what we had to do, because I’m a Loser and I always will be, and…” He presses his hand flat against Eddie’s chest, fingers spreading wide over his rumpled sleep shirt, right over the branching scar just beneath. The beat of Eddie’s heart washes over him, faster than Richie’s and too forceful to be in sync. He gives himself a moment to soak it in. “You know the rest. We won. It’s over. Everything’s comin’ up roses and all that. I didn’t want to remember how much you guys meant to me, but then I did and I don’t want to forget again.” He sighs, chancing a look at Eddie’s expression. It’s so devastatingly soft, Richie just might cry. “Uh, yeah, so I’m pretty sure I’ve been up here longer than ten minutes. I should really get going. Can’t leave a hottie like Ben waiting around all day.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Yeah?” He should probably pull away, now that the aura around them is settling into something more companionable. His hand slides down Eddie’s chest, stops at his hip, above his thigh, but he doesn’t pull away completely because that thumb on his knuckles is still brushing away, giving him goosebumps, and the fingers that had tried to tuck that stray curl away from his face are back again, digging into the hair at his nape, and a wild urge to lean forward and kiss Eddie Kaspbrak’s stupidly pursed lips draws Richie closer before he can even blink. He freezes when his brain catches up with his body, the distance between their noses wide enough to remain relatively innocent. He feels like he might drown in that space. “You good now? Got all the juicy details you wanted?”

“No, you cagey motherfucker—”

“Takes one to know one!”

His head is shoved roughly away, fully breaking the spell, and he yelps a startled laugh.

“Look, you said I didn’t know you as well as I thought, I was just trying to change that. Excuse me for caring about feelings and shit.”

“You’re excused. This time.”

Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Alright, you can go now.”

“Didn’t realize I needed your permission, but thanks.”

“And get some good snacks, would you?” he demands as Richie stands, cracking his back on the way up. “Not just fucking beef jerky or twizzlers or whatever the fuck your alien tastebuds like.” He’s smacking the back of his fingers of his right hand into the palm of his left when he adds: “We need _actual_ sustenance!”

“I’ll pick you up a bag of salad, Thumper. Anything else?”

“Strawberry wafers,” he immediately replies. “And vanilla pudding packs!”

Richie makes a face that Eddie can’t see, since he’s pushing past the door to reenter the bedroom, and smiles to himself while slipping his socked feet into filthy sneakers. He should be thinking about what types of food everyone else will want, though he supposes Ben might be better at guessing than he is, but instead all Richie can think about are strawberry shakes and vanilla cones, and how some things are too perfect to change.

Damn, he’s screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Not much to say this time, except that Richie and Eddie are /still/ confusing and dumb. Also, welcome back Stan! 7/7 always!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I know it's kind of an odd in-between type of thing, but I like my build-up, what can I say. I also obviously like face kisses, as I'm sure you can tell. (Eddie died and came back to life! I like to think that they'd both let their guard down a little bit here and there, in this type of situation, to allow for sweet little moments like those. But also I just want fluff, so I do what I want. Hopefully it's what you want, too.)
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think, if you have the time. I'd really appreciate it. :)


	6. Perfect Circle

Shopping with Ben had been a nightmare.

He was as helpful as he was handsome, of course. Full of considerate smiles and sincere suggestions. He’d spent _ages_ trying to find a gift for Patrica and Stan at a fucking grocery store, stressing that if an arrangement of flowers weren’t going to survive a twenty-plus hour car ride with six hooligans then gourmet chocolate sure as hell wouldn’t either. So he hemmed and hawed around the store, following Richie down aisles to silently put away five out of every seven items Richie placed in the cart, swapping them with something he deemed better. He’d found his _perfect gift_ this way: a large pack of expensive coffee and tea blends he was sure the newly reunited couple would enjoy.

And that had been the _good_ part of the whole ordeal. Because the rest of the time? Oh, the rest of the time was spent with Ben gently coaxing Richie into talking about _Eddie_ ; what Richie thought of him, what Richie felt for him, why Richie wouldn’t confess his obvious love for him now that he had the chance. Richie clenched his teeth so hard, for so long, that his entire jaw ached for the next two hours they’d managed to spend in that shitty little store.

“ _Ben, I can’t believe I’m saying this but I’m gonna need you to get the fuck off my dick, alright?_ ” he’d shouted at one point, earning a glare from an elderly couple that just so happened to be passing by. Ben hadn’t been deterred by Richie’s obvious irritation, however, his smile bashful but firm as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his tight jeans and continued to hound Richie relentlessly.

“ _Bev told me—_ ”

“ _Bev doesn’t know shit, man. And neither do you_ _!_ _Go grab me some—_ _some Red Bull or something, I dunno. Shoo!"_

“ _You don’t need Red Bull, Rich. Eddie’ll kill me if I let you bring that with us._ ”

“ _Sounds like a you problem, Benny, my_ _gorgeous_ _, annoying friend._ ”

 _“Look, it’s_ _none of my business, but Richie,_ _come on,_ ” he’d said, low and masterfully patient, “ _I know how you feel about Eddie, and it’s not just because I saw_ _the way you_ _were after_ _…_ _everything._ _I know because I’ve felt the same about Beverly for twenty-seven years_ _, man._ _And I think if you just say it once, out loud, to someone other than yourself—I think it might make things easier. You can work up to telling Eddie, if you want, or not if you don’t, but just putting it out there? Talking about it, with me or Bev or whoever you’re comfortable with? Some of that weight will fall off your shoulders, Rich. Trust me_ _, it will._ _Just… t_ _his is a fresh start for all of us_ _, right?_ _I want you to make it count._ ”

Richie had silently stood in front of the wall of alcohol at the very back of the store, holding a bottle of rosé in one hand (for Stan and his wife because he could be a nice guest sometimes, _okay?_ ) and a bottle of blended scotch in the other, barely succeeding in keeping himself quiet under Ben’s sympathetic gaze, when his phone had buzzed in his pocket. He’d placed the bottles in the cart and pulled his phone out eagerly, not caring that it was probably his manager texting for the fiftieth time since Richie had sent _one_ vague response after charging his phone in the car, but any distraction was better than nothing.

He hadn’t recognized the number, but the message made clear who the sender was.

 _Got the car. Stop dicking around and hurry up._ Another buzz. _Who’s your optometrist/ophthalmologist and where are they located?_

After saving the contact plainly as ‘Eddie,’ Richie had opted to reply with: 

_how’d u get this #_

It took less than thirty seconds to receive a response.

****Eddie:** **

_Mike. Duh. Answer my questions_ _!_

_Better yet, send me their number._

Richie could do nothing but shake his head in fond exasperation as his thumbs tapped away.

_w_ _hy_ _,_ _need new bifocals? do u still wear those?_ _??_

****Eddie:** **

_If I needed new bifocals I’d call the practice I go to in Manhattan, dipshit._

_You said you wanted new glasses and you’re clearly not on the ball, and walking around with a fucking crack in the lens is obvious visual impairment for someone as blind as you, so I really hope Ben didn’t let you drive._

_I’m gonna have your doctor fax your prescription over to a place in Atlanta that promised they’d have a new pair for you in a couple days_ _. You can pick them up_ _while we’re visiting Stan. IF you give me the info I need so I can get this shit going!_

_Also, you type like an old guy trying to be cool._

Reading those words, seeing paragraph after paragraph pop onto his screen beneath Eddie’s name, had made Richie feel like someone physically struck him across the face, but, like, in a _good_ way. He’d been rendered speechless by Eddie’s concern and initiative, his desire to _help_ while being his adorable, prickly self, especially after the weirdly raw moment they’d shared in the bathroom.

Richie was so busy staring slack-jawed at his phone that he hadn’t even noticed Ben reading over his shoulder until the quiet _aww_ reached his ears, and by then it was definitely too late to hide the messages _and_ his dopey grin.

He’d typed ‘ _i AM an old guy trying 2 b cool thx 4 noticing’_ and then followed it with the information Eddie was looking for, capping it off with a proper ‘ _thank you’_ that he couldn't send without tacking on a stupid peace sign emoji because his emotions were starting to go haywire and _what the fuck._

After stuffing the phone back into his pocket and sucking in a lungful of crisp air, he’d rounded on Ben and, finally, said out loud:

 _“Okay, so._ _I’m in love with Eddie._ ”

There was no real _reason_ for that outright admittance during that particular moment in time. Ben had been persuasive, but not nearly persuasive enough. Richie had felt on edge from all the _Eddie Eddie Eddie_ moments he’d been tossed into since returning to Derry, but not to the point of erasing all plausible deniability by actually _speaking_ those life-defining words into existence. He’d been touched by Eddie’s easy thoughtfulness, but not so blown away that his life-long secret needed to be thrust into the spotlight without preamble.

It had to have been a lot of things, he’d decided as he and Ben packed their shit into the car and drove silently back to the Town House. Not just Eddie’s death, not just his resurrection, not just Bev and her all-knowing ways, not just Ben’s common ground, not just the intimacy that’d been sprouting over hours and days and, in some ways, _years_. It was _also_ Eddie being his pissy, bratty self, demanding Richie give him the phone number of his optometrist in Chicago so he could call ahead and make sure Richie could get his fucked up glasses replaced before their next little excursion ended and they went their separate ways. It was _also_ Eddie showing his affection with biting words and tender actions, the way he _always_ did, that made Richie, an already weak man, completely crumble.

It was _also_ the face he imagined Eddie might be making as he read Richie’s replies, the frown he was probably trying to mask an amused smile with, their conversation reflecting in the bright shine of his large, pretty eyes.

A flash of white hot jealousy had rushed through Richie while he slumped in the passenger seat, as far down as his long legs would allow. Those thoughts about Eddie taking care of him, and him taking care of Eddie, morphed slowly into ones about Eddie taking care of Myra, his _wife_ , and Myra taking care of Eddie, her _husband_ , and how it didn’t matter if she was a clone of his mother because she still had something that Richie never would.

“ _He’s married,_ ” Richie said to Ben before they’d parked behind a huge-ass Cadillac SUV across from the Town House. “ _To a woman._ ”

“ _Bev’s married, too_ _,_ ” he’d reminded softly, deciding to ignore the very specific point regarding the gender of Eddie’s spouse, which was baffling. As if it didn’t matter, somehow. He probably knew that wasn’t Richie’s only reservation, that it was merely the easiest one to hide behind. “ _And even if it was happily, I would’ve told her_ _how I felt_ _. Even if it wouldn’t have saved our lives back there, I would’ve_ _done it._ _Not just because I’d be_ _counting on_ _her feel_ _ing_ _the same_ _, or because I’d be looking for sympathy_ _or whatever, nothing like that._ _I just… it’s because she’d always deserve to know. That someone never stopped loving her for her kindness and her humor and her bravery, and the way she made people feel. The way she made_ me _feel, just by being herself. That I’d only ever wanted her to feel that same way, whoever it ended up being with. And I like to think I’d deserve to let go, too. If that’s how it ended. I could just_ know _, finally, and focus on learning how to fit into each other’s lives again without wishing for something more_ _, never knowing what could’ve been._ _Don’t you think you deserve the same, Rich? To move forward, no secrets, if it’s not what you’re hoping for? To be the happiest you’ve_ _ever_ _been, if it is? And don’t you think Eddie deserves to be the one making that choice,_ _for once in his life,_ _if you let him?_ ”

“ _Ben,_ ” he breathed, staring straight ahead and not seeing anything at all. “ _Ben, you don’t—You_ always _had a chance, man. That’s the difference between you and me._ ”

“ _Richie…_ _”_ He had the gall to chuckle, though not unkindly. _“_ _I’m pretty sure you always had a chance, too. And for what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure you still do._ ”

That one sentence from Ben had haunted Richie for the past two hours while he sat inside, bouncing his leg up and down, waiting for everyone to get their shit together so they can check out _—_ miraculously, there’s a woman behind the counter now; half-blind, half-deaf, more wrinkled than a raisin _—_ and be on their merry way.

It haunts Richie, still, as he climbs into the back of the Cadillac SUV (that _of course_ Eddie had chosen) after he’d helped pack the collective luggage of six Losers into the massive trunk. But he does what he does best by shoving those desperate, hopeful thoughts behind a curtain and stepping out from behind them with humor as his shield.

“So, wait. Who decided it was a good idea to let the guy that crashed his car start us off on our trip? My money’s on Bill. He never thinks shit through.”

“Hey, fuck you, dude!”

“Yeah, Richie,” Bill huffs through a crooked grin. “Fuck you!”

“Well, geez. _Double_ fuck me, I guess. Are we going for a threesome or a gangbang? I’m not flexible enough for either, but I’ll try anything once. Sometimes twice.”

Richie doesn’t mean to say all that. He blames Ben for making him all nervous beforehand. He tries not to let it show, going so far as to wiggle his brows when Bev chokes on her water.

“Beep beep, Richie!”

The closer they get to Derry’s city limits the easier it is to conjure a myriad of possibilities he’d never considered before. Like what if they start to forget the moment they cross out of town? What if, by the time they get to Atlanta, they look at each other with uncertainty and no recollection? What if It somehow springs back to life without their presence around to keep it snuffed out?

What if it was all a dream? A nightmare? And leaving meant waking up, and waking up meant realizing they’d been knocked cold during the collapse of the crackhead house, and he’d have to live through being torn away from Eddie’s body again, only this time there’d be no mythical Turtle to bring him back and Richie would be going home to Chicago as a shell of the shell of his former self.

He holds his breath as Eddie speeds out of Derry, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He thinks, briefly, hesitantly, about asking him to turn the car around, to visit the Kissing Bridge just to see if the marks on the wood had disappeared alongside the ones on their hands. But he says nothing, holding his tongue for for minutes on end.

Bill is the first to cave when he asks,“Hey, can someone pass me the PopTarts?”

Beverly rifles through a couple of plastic bags Richie and Ben had gotten from the store, sitting up with two different boxes.

“Cinnamon or blueberry?”

And, just like that, the remnants of Derry’s spell dissipates for good, releasing them into the rest of the world with steady memories in their heads and fistfuls of hope in their pockets.

They devolve into arguments soon enough, quips and laughter and small talk bouncing around the interior until a comfortable silence takes hold. Richie becomes bored easily, feet kicking the back of the driver’s seat in quick bursts, causing Eddie to glare at him through the rearview mirror. It shouldn’t be adorable but it _is._

Approximately four hours of driving per person is the rule they decided on, though Eddie gets eight since he’s adamant about refusing to let Richie behind the wheel with broken glasses. He whines about this turn of events, naturally, only letting up when Eddie pulls over at the start of his next four hour shift so Richie can replace Bill in the passenger seat. The first thing he does, even before buckling up, is connects his phone to the console through bluetooth and cranks the volume.

 _‘I’m the man in the box, buried in my shit. Won’t you come and save me? Save me. Feed my eyes, can you sew them shut? Jesus Christ, deny your maker. He who tries will be wasted. Feed my eyes, now you’ve sewn them shut…_ ’

No one complains with his song choices and although Eddie _does_ lower the volume after a while he seems mostly pleased with Richie’s tastes, even singing along with the whole car when _All Star_ bumps through the speakers. Richie imitates Shrek’s voice right in the middle of the song, louder than everyone else combined, and his body grows warm with contentment when the Losers wheeze into each other’s shoulders and compliment him his skills.

He feels most proud when he distracts Eddie so badly that he swerves to avoid hitting the bumper of the car in front, with Eddie’s shrill complaints getting yelled through a shaky grimace. Mike chides them for this, insisting that he didn’t spend his whole life in Derry and survive a fight with an ancient alien entity just to end up dying on the road due to someone else’s recklessness. It definitely sobers the mood a little.

They pull over once more at the start of the ninth hour, as the sky begins to darken behind the golden sun, in order to relieve themselves at a roadside diner and load up on greasy food to go. Beverly makes herself comfortable in the seat Eddie had previously occupied, with Ben taking Richie’s place, and after everyone stretches their legs with a short walk they cram back into the dusty SUV to zoom away.

Richie plays _I Touch Myself_ by Divinyls three times in a row, cackling over Eddie’s increasingly reddening face while secretly enjoying the way he clutches at his own knees for dear life. He would’ve played it for a fourth time if Bev hadn’t chosen that moment to steal bluetooth privileges.

“ _‘Cause I’m just a girl, I’d rather not be_ , _‘cause they won’t let me drive late at night,_ ” she sings under her breath, earning a soppy sideways smile from Ben, “ _yes, I’m just a girl, must be some kind of freak, ‘cause they all sit and stare with their eyes…”_

Mike reads aloud texts he gets from Stan at random intervals. It’s pitch black out, save for the SUV’s head and tail lights, well past 9pm, the time Richie knows Stan always liked to fall asleep around, and yet the man seems more than happy to use Mike as a means to reveal a slew of dorky facts about the Goober State. Richie had considered searching the internet for Stanley Uris the way he’d done for Eddie’s wife but threw the idea out before it could fully take root. He didn’t want to see Stan’s face on a dinky, stationary screen for the first time. He wants to see it in person, wants to examine every line and wrinkle, dynamic with laughter and annoyance. Alive and well. Like the rest of the Losers. Like Eddie. He squints down at his small, shifty friend in the dark when that thought becomes overwhelming.

Eddie moves his head from side to side, dark hair tousled, working the muscles in his neck, which is bared by the low collar of his cotton tee. His slim hands ball into fists, wide fingers stretching when he rolls his wrists, the gleam of his watch and wedding band catching in the headlights of a car that passes by. He rotates his ankles in circles to keep the circulation flowing through legs that are clad in black trousers fitted to hint at muscular thighs. Licking his lips, he pops a piece of gum into his mouth, undeniably dissatisfied with the fact that he can’t brush his teeth before bed, and then catches Richie staring.

Eddie stares right back.

Heat shoots through Richie’s veins.

The music dies down around midnight, as do the messages from Stan. Ben, fresh from a nap, takes over while Mike sets an alarm to wake him for his turn. Richie can see Beverly through his peripheral, pressing a sweet kiss to Ben’s cheek before draping his jacket over her lap and using a balled towel as a pillow. He can see Bill and Mike in front of his and Eddie’s bench seat, leaning against the doors on either side, their feet nudging each other in the middle. He can see Eddie begin to squirm, scooting closer to Richie, bringing his legs up to curl in the area he’d just been sitting in. The seat-belt must be digging painfully beneath his chin as he leans heavily against Richie’s arm, but it doesn’t seem to bother or deter him from getting comfortable against Richie’s side.

With his heart beating harshly in his throat, Richie slips an arm around Eddie’s back. He _has_ to, the position wouldn’t be sustainable otherwise. The fact that his palm lingers near Eddie’s hip is purely an accident!

“Hey, before you get all cozy and start drooling on my favorite shirt, did you bring any headphones with you?”

He leans in close to ask his question, shivering when his lips graze against Eddie’s temple.

“Your shirt’s hideous,” he grumbles in return, dropping his head fully on Richie’s shoulder as he twists at an odd angle to dig around in the fanny pack he’d clipped to his waist before they’d left. Richie had been unreasonably ecstatic about the whole thing. He almost cried when Eddie had pulled one out of a suitcase. “And I don’t drool. Here.”

He presses the mess of wires into Richie’s outstretched hand, keeping one bud for himself without explanation. Richie thumbs the screen of his phone thoughtfully.

“Wanna fall asleep to _White and Nerdy?_ ”

“I think falling asleep ON _White and Nerdy_ is enough.” He elbows Richie’s side for emphasis. He doesn’t move his head. “But whatever. Just don’t blow my eardrums out.”

Richie nods, feeling the tickle of Eddie’s hair against his cheek, and selects a song off one of his lesser used playlists. He knows what he chooses is something that reminds him of more than just his lost youth, and he knows that Eddie might learn a little too much if he stays awake long enough to really listen. That’s why he’d always been careful about what kind of music he’d share with Eddie in any meaningful way, why he’s giving himself a bit of a break by doing this now. It just feels like he should.

Richie keeps the song so quiet that the words are barely audible, the light melody almost like a lullaby nestling in the backs of their minds.

‘ _I have a picture pinned to my wall, an image of you and of me and we’re laughing and loving it all. Look at our life now. We’re tattered and torn. We fuss and we fight and delight in the tears that we cry until dawn. Oh, hold me now. Whoa, warm my heart. Stay with me, let loving start, let loving start._ ’

His eyelids slip closed, insides lurching excitedly and brain turning to mush when Eddie’s fingers tangle with his. The movement isn’t smooth. It’s jilted, almost aggressive, and his grip is too tight for someone ready to switch off for the night, but it stabilizes the nerves vibrating in Richie as the wheels of the SUV roll against worn pavement, anchoring him to the present like the outside world has ceased to exist. For now, it has.

‘ _You say I’m a dreamer, we’re two of a kind. Both of us searching for some perfect world we know we’ll never find. So perhaps I should leave here, yeah, yeah, go far away. But you know that there’s nowhere that I’d rather be than with you here today…_ ”

Richie presses his cheek to the top of Eddie’s head, bathing in the sense of _love_ that blooms through the space between his ribs and rises to clog the back of his throat, arm shifting restlessly against Eddie’s thigh. He thinks of what Ben had told him, about having a chance, and knows it isn’t true. _Couldn’t_ be, right? But then he feels Eddie tuck closer to his chest, snuggled up to him in a way they’d never been before, and drifts with wishful wonders clouding his mind, nothing but _maybe maybe maybe_ clinging to the roof of his mouth, swimming in the center of his torso.

‘ _You ask if I love you. Well, what could I say? You know that I do, and if this is just one of those games that we play…_ ’

*** * ***

It’s around 1pm when Bill pulls into the massive lot of a Super 8 that they choose purely because of how close it is to Stan’s house, just a few streets away from the optician Eddie had contacted. The outside of the motel is tacky and dated and dirty, warranting a handful of disgusted grunts from Eddie as they stiffly make their way to the front desk through a grimy glass door.

The lobby’s deserted. Only two employees idle at the back wall (one in a tiny office, the other manning the Check-In station). When compared to the Incredible Vanishing Woman back at the Town House, things aren’t _too_ bad. But they’re starving and tired and sore—and ready to strangle any and all annoyances, according to the threats Bev and Eddie constantly spit at Richie and Bill as they volley off each other weakly.

Most importantly, however, they’re excited to see Stan.

Richie catches Mike smiling softly at them as he steps forward first, everyone else crowding around behind him and slapping their individual credit cards—minus Beverly, who puts hers back when Ben gently pushes her hand away, and Eddie, who doesn’t even bother taking his out—onto the sticky surface of the cluttered desk.

“Hi, how’re you doing today, sir?” Mike greets pleasantly. He pauses, too, like he genuinely wants to hear the balding attendant’s answer.

“Fine, thanks. I guess I should be asking you that, but— hold on, aren’t you William Denbrough? The horror writer? And you’re that comedian! Richie Tozier!”

“Oh god,” Eddie groans just as Bill shifts awkwardly beside him.

Richie forces a grin onto his face despite the embarrassment and unease settling high in his stomach.

“Uh, yeah, yep. That’s my name.”

“Could I get an autograph?”

He’s surprised by the request, despite being asked quite regularly. It’s just... things have been fairly shitty lately, considering, and his last show had ended in a humiliating disaster, but his reluctant smile slowly twitches into a real one as he reaches to take the pen he’s being offered.

“Yeah, sure. You want a message, or—”

“Just your name’s good.” Richie shrugs and scribbles on the plain sheet of paper presented to him, the Super 8 logo on the bottom faded like they hadn’t had enough ink to print it properly. The man snatches it away after Richie dots his third i. “Wow, man, thanks!”

“Did you want me to—”

“No, that’s fine.” The man cuts Bill off with a grin, staring down at Richie’s signature with glee. “You haven’t been in the news for a while, Mr. Denbrough, but Tozier? He’s like the Britney Spears of 2016!” _Oh_ , Richie thinks, the embarrassment in his gut twisting painfully. _Okay._ _That’s what this is._ “I got an autograph from a celebrity at the height of their mental breakdown! The end of their career! I’m gonna make bank on eBay. Oh, um, no offence?”

Richie’s chest deflates and his smile turns forced once more. He opens his mouth to crack a joke that’ll make him part of the laughter rather than the full brunt of it, but Eddie steps up beside Mike and slaps his hands onto the counter before he can work so much as a sound past his chapped lips.

“Hey, _no offence_ , shithead, but do you maybe wanna do your job before I decide to bring OSHA down on your ass? I work for an insurance firm, I’m a risk analyst, so I know what the fuck I’m doing, alright? Yeah, you think I don’t see that water stain up there? It’s fucking massive and it’s gonna rot completely one of these days, and someone’s gonna fall through and break their fucking neck! Also, do you provide your employees with adequate PPE? Do you even _have_ employees? Do they even _clean?_ There’s a mountain of dirt in the corner! It’s like a cockroach paradise in here! And I’m sure you’ve got bigger problems than that. Like, I smell something really fucking musty right now, it’s either mildew or your breath, and you don’t want me telling you which is worse. Trust me, pal. Oh, what about that light up? It’s flickering like a fucking strobe, which means you probably have electrical problems, which also means I could sue your ass if I get electrocuted trying to charge my phone. So stop talking _shit_ and do your _job_ and give us four rooms—” Bev winks at Richie when he looks over at her with his mouth hanging open, absurdly close to choking on some excess saliva. “Two singles and two doubles, one with multiple beds if you have that. No water damage. No mold. And, _fuck you_ , no eBay, so gimme that—” He rips the autograph from the balding, bug-eyed man, and shoves it into his pocket with a glare. “Charge us separately.”

“But… I, uh, okay?” the man splutters dumbly, fumbling with the computer in an attempt to appease Eddie’s wrath as quickly as possible.

“ _What the fuck,_ ” Richie whispers to no one in particular. He’s unable to tear his gaze away from Eddie, who steps away with one final nod, retaking his place between Richie and Bev with a smug little smirk. He doesn’t know if anything Eddie just said is actually real or true, although he _does_ know it was damn convincing, a real sight to behold. Richie is horrified to find himself getting a little bit turned on by the display of Eddie not only taking charge like that, but sticking up for him as well. He’d always avoided outside conflict as a kid, would only talk shit to the back of Henry’s scraggly head rather than the ugly front of it, but _now?_ Holy balls! Richie is probably blushing like a fool “Dude—”

“You’re paying for our room.”

Wait—

“ _O_ _ur_ room?”

“Uh, yeah? There’s six of us, so four rooms means two pairs are sharing. I—I assumed you’d be okay with me again, that’s why I asked for a double, but if you want Bill or Mike instead—”

“No!” He winces at how eager he sounds. “No, no, that’s. It’s fine.”

“Okay. Good. It’s—you already know what I said before.” About not wanting to wake up alone… yeah, Richie remembers way too well. “And I’d be more comfortable if it was _us_. I’ll owe you. I mean, I’d pay for it myself but I already put the car on my Master and I share that account with Myra, and I wouldn’t put it past her to cut the damn thing off if I start spending too much. She’ll think the card got stolen. Or that I’ve finally gone off the deep end and me rushing out of state instead of going to work and going on a spending spree means I’m in the middle of my inevitable midlife crisis, and I already blocked her number since she keeps calling every few minites and I really just—I can’t talk to her right now, Richie. I’m not in the mood to scream and argue to for _five straight hours._ And oh… oh, _fuck,_ she’s probably reported me missing by now! _Shit_. The fucking FBI’s gonna track my fucking _phone_ —”

Richie slips his hand into Eddie’s immediately, not dissimilar to what Eddie had done before they’d fallen asleep in the car, hoping the gesture is soothing and not unwelcome. It certainly works in making Eddie quiet.

“Whoa, calm down, alright? I don’t mind paying for the room. This place fucking sucks, dude. It’s probably less than a hundred a night, and money’s not even a problem. Sharing isn’t either. Plus, it’ll be just like old times! And Myra—she’s not _actually_ your mom, Eddie, no matter how hard that is to believe. Unless you think she’s gonna send a hit-man after you for not doing what she wants, I’d say you’re good. Not even the FBI can make your stubborn ass go home, Eds. You’re a grown man. Or, well, _half_ grown.”

Eddie rolls his eyes at the jab but lets it go. He reaches for his pocket, freezing when, Richie thinks, he remembers he doesn’t have an inhaler on him. Not anymore. He must deem holding Richie’s hand as a suitable replacement because he feels warm fingers wrap around his own then, knuckles tucking into his palm and squeezing. 

“You’re right, you’re right. Thanks, Rich.”

“Sure. No problemo.” He swings their arms a little, secretly thrilled by the connection ( _they’re. holding. hands!!)_ and the fact that Eddie didn’t seem to mind having their friends as an audience. “Can I just mention real quick that you totally destroyed that guy for me? Fuckin’ _A_ , man,” he bends to say quietly. “You can keep my autograph, call it even. And, hey, if you’re still riding the tattoo train, might I suggest you take that page in and let ‘em work their magic?”

“Yeah, I’ll get your name inked on my fucking ass, Richie, and then you can kiss it.”

He barks out a laugh, releasing Eddie’s hand in order to fling his arm around two sharp shoulders, hauling him in close.

“How very kinky of you!”

Eddie shoves him away for that, which he doesn’t mourn too much since he has to stride over to pick up his credit card and slot it into his wallet anyway. When it’s his turn to sign one of four receipts he makes sure to scribble as illegibly as possible, just so the prick who tosses it into a drawer won’t be believed if he tries to sell it off later.

They tuck their keycards into varying safe spots and shuffle back outside rather than up to check their rooms, not wanting to keep Stan waiting. Richie flips two birds to the man behind the counter just as the door slips closed.

He spends the short ride over to the Uris house thinking he hasn’t felt this content in a long while—until they pull up to a sensible house in a sensible neighborhood some five minutes later, where everything clicks fully into place.

Richie cries when he sees Stanley Uris for the first time since 1993.

He’ll deny such a thing, if ever accused, although it helps that he isn’t the only one with tears clumping his lashes while Stanley’s passed around like they’re playing a game of Hot Potato. It’s just, he’s cried so much since getting Mike’s call, with the majority of those tears coming out distraught and dripping, _heavy_ , and this is only the second time—right up there with Eddie holding him close at the top of the staircase—that Richie cries because he’s unbearably _happy_ _,_ his tears coming out in two streaks of relief, barely skimming the surface of his skin before soaking into his pores.

Bill, the blubbering mess, hangs off Stanley’s arm like a koala, while Ben draws him into a hug that lifts Stan’s feet off the ground. Beverly kisses his face, eyes watery and over-bright, and she leaves him after some shoulder rubs to hug the polite looking blond woman standing awkwardly nearby. It takes a few seconds for Mike to trudge over, head bowed in apology, but Ben and Bill pull him into their joint embrace and Stan cups his face in both hands, whispering something Richie is too far away to hear, then nods, serious and severe, when Mike mumbles a reply.

He’s tired of crying, regardless of the context, so he laughs until the loud sounds become sincere and shoves his way forward with Eddie hot on his heels. He ruffles Stan’s springy curls, just to be annoying. Yanks the blue cardigan halfway down his arms and jokes about how he doesn’t look a day over eighty.

“Richie,” Stan says evenly, with just a hint of pleasant surprise.

His voice is deeper than Richie remembers it being at their high school graduation, though the level of eloquence he’s able to deliver with just one word hasn’t changed at all.

 _This_ is Stanley Uris and, outside of the cashmere cardigans, which he must’ve adopted sometime during his fancy college years, and the glistening wedding band wrapped around a slender finger, he looks exactly like he used to. Taller, yes, but the same in every other way. Eyes tired and narrow, frizzy ringlets styled with perfect faux effortlessness, striped shirt buttoned high and tucked into khakis with a brown leather belt. The same, just like Bev had said.

He’s smiling too, bright and big. One of those rare Cheshire grins that really only happened when they were flying down the road on their bikes, birds flapping serenely overhead, delivering a joke (usually at Richie’s expense) so dry that it could help start a fire.

Stan’s expression shifts minutely when Eddie steps properly into view.

It takes Richie a moment to remember that they’d already seen each other. Not face-to-face physically, but face-to-face in another plane, in not-so-earthly bodies. It’s weird to think about, but the recognition that passes between them is undeniable confirmation of what Eddie had told them.

“It’s good to see you again,” Stan says lowly, reaching out to pat Eddie’s arms, checking over every inch of him, searching for something wrong. “Without all the blood and guts, specifically.”

“And it’s good to see you without all that mummy wrap.” He nods toward Stan’s forearms. If Richie squints hard enough he can almost make out the thin, raised lines that start at his wrists and disappear somewhere beneath the sleeves he’d pushed up to his elbows. They look as old as Eddie’s scars do, like they’re from another lifetime. “This is really weird, right?”

Stan laughs.

“Yeah, Eddie, it really fucking is.” The woman—Stan’s wife, Patricia—clutches at his arms the second after those words leave his lips. Richie thinks, at first, that it’s the cursing that makes her go rigid, but then he realizes by the sad, adoring way she stares at the side of his face that she understands what’s being said and hates to remember her near loss the same way Richie does. Stan holds her close and kisses her forehead soothingly. “You know about Patty already, but here she is. My beautiful, amazing, wonderful wife.”

“ _Stanley_ ,” she breathes, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. She holds out a hand for someone, anyone, to shake. “He forgot to mention that I’m severely confused and bewildered but still very grateful to meet you all.”

Beverly doesn’t need to shake her hand since they’re already at the hugging stage of their new friendship, apparently, so Richie, being the second closest, clasps her dainty fingers in his much larger ones and gives it a solid jiggle. They each introduce themselves properly to her, careful and quiet so as not to add to all the insanity she must’ve faced on her own since the night her husband decided to take a late bath.

She bashfully mentions that she has a purse, pink with white daisies on the flap, from the Rogan & Marsh line and that it happens to be the most well-loved item in her closet; that she’s not much on horror, and neither is Stan, but that they still have a few of Bill’s earliest books (gifts from acquaintances) tucked away carefully on their bedroom bookshelf, half the pages bent and worn while the other half remain crisp and untouched; that some of her students talk about a funny guy named Richie Tozier and play videos of him in class, despite threats of detention, and that she’s read a few articles about him, mostly when Stan forgets to close his morning news tabs while in a rush to get to a last-minute meeting; that Ben’s designs are very beautiful and abstract, and that she usually isn’t a fan of modernism in architecture but she can admire how he’s able to inject real warmth and a sense of community into his projects, no matter what they are.

Stan asks Mike what he’s been up to, earnestly curious and not just polite, and Mike chuckles breathlessly, mumbling something about how he’d spent a lot of time getting to know the ins and outs of Maine and that he hopes to spend a lot of time getting to know the beaches in Florida next. Stanley asks Eddie about his life, as well. It’s not surprising that he’s impressed with such a boring career.

The home they’re ushered into is smack-dab in the suburbs and just so happens to be the most picturesque thing Richie’s ever seen. It reminds him of every home he’d ever been in as a kid, old and muted and mature, though less tacky than that era by far, and perhaps a bit more upper-class without being snooty. It reminds him of the Uris household in Derry, if he remembers correctly. Always pristine and perfect for any and all guests that might stop by, but if feels less stuffy here, more welcoming, modernized by flat-screens and laptops and wireless stereos.

The group trots through the foyer, glancing around with unbidden interest at everything they pass as they enter the open floor plan that has the living room and kitchen combined. There are pink lampshades and floral printed cabinets and numerous framed photographs of birds on every wall. There are puzzles on the table, silent reruns of _Family Feud_ on the TV, a mess of cookware and ingredients on the island, faint music drifting from a dining room off to the side.

Stan looks comfortable in his eccentric, old-fashioned home, like he belongs here more than he’s ever belonged anywhere before, with one arm slung casually around his wife’s waist and the other hung down at his side with a grocery bag full of gifts hanging from his hand. Comfortable in a way Richie could never feel ( _alone_ ) in his Chicago bungalow or condo in LA. Happy and at secure. Richie meets Eddie’s eye behind Bev and Ben’s backs. It’s only in those chocolate, velvety depths that he feels either of those things.

He turns around before his expression can give that yearning thought away.

“We might have gone a little overboard, in terms of the menu…” Patty trails as she ushers everyone toward classical tunes and delicious smelling foods. “I didn’t know what to expect, and I wanted this to be a celebration. To be honest, I’m just happy to actually use this room for something other than paperwork.” She gestures vaguely to the sideboards placed against the walls surrounding the large table, each one holding lamps and books and piles upon piles of notepads. “We don’t have people over very often.”

“No friends?” Richie teases, baring his teeth at Stanley in an obnoxious grin.

He gets the patented eye roll for his troubles.

“We’d rather go out, if other people are involved. Our home’s a special sanctuary, just for us and close family, and, well, you Losers have always been family. You always will be. So we’re happy to welcome you in.”

“We’re happy to be here, Stan.” Bill claps him on the back and points to the table that’s covered in clean wine glasses and steaming platters. “You guys made all this? It looks amazing!”

“And we’re starving,” Bev adds with a clap. “Denny’s at 6am didn’t exactly do much for us.”

“Here, before you dig in.”

Stan grabs a large bottle of Purell off the table and Eddie practically rips it away from him. Richie snorts but accepts the overly large goop Eddie squirts into his cupped hands without complaint. Eddie takes it upon himself to give _everyone_ the proper amount of sanitizer, then, while Richie drools over BBQ brisket, potato latkes, tossed salad, challah rolls, mac and cheese, rugelach, and peach cobbler.

“Geez, you guys should have your own cooking show. _Southern Fried Jews._ Give my manager a call. I think it’d be a big hit.”

“Ignore him,” he hears Stan mutter to Patty. “We used to call him Trashmouth for many, many reasons.”

“And those reasons are _way_ too inappropriate for Table Talk, Staniel, you naughty boy.”

Eddie nudges him and nods at two of the closest chairs, jammed in between another set that were clearly added last minute. Richie shrugs and follows him over so they can settle in side-by-side, with Bill and Mike closing around them like parentheses. Ben, Bev, Patty, and Stan occupy the other side.

They eat with gusto, focusing more on satisfying their stomachs instead of attempting to make small talk. There are jokes, as usual, both deliberate and unintentional, and Richie’s leading the pack with ten out of ten material, but he keeps quiet for the most part, shoveling carbs and sugar down his gullet and chasing it with some kind of rich, earthy wine.

They murmur in pairs more so than as a group, with Bev and Bill engaging Stan and Patty most often, while Ben and Mike give each other book reports or some shit, and Richie pretends he’s not staring at the chocolate Eddie accidentally smears around the corners of his mouth. He wants to lick it away. He laughs at himself for being so brazen in his own mind.

Eddie grins at the sound, completely unaware of what had caused it, but there’s a spark in his expression that’s pure affection, and Richie would immerse himself in it completely, if he could.

He feels like a kid again, _right_ in his skin even when other people think he’s _wrong_ ; cozy and happy and nervous in a way that makes him want to puke and run and shout. He feels like an adult, aching in his chair because he’d spent too long cramped in the car, hazy with alcohol in what by all accounts should be a boring atmosphere, though it’s surprisingly domestic and refreshing. But he’s tucked into himself like he’s a version of Richie Tozier that’s new and old, sewn from scraps he’d shed and earned during all those minutes in between.

 _This is a fresh start for all of us_ , Ben had said.

Richie picks the napkin up of his lap and motions with two fingers for Eddie to come closer. He does, without question or complaint, and merely watches as Richie grabs his chin between forefinger and thumb and wipes dutifully at the corners of his mouth. He tries not to stare when lips part beneath his touch. Tries not to overthink the way his eyebrows dance around, unable to decide what emotion to settle on. Tries to let go after a reasonable amount of time, maybe add in a comment about how Eddie’s always been the baby of the group despite not even being the youngest, just for some levity.

He tries and tries, but every attempt falls flat when compared to the gentleness he’d just displayed. Eddie watches him with constant fleeting glances through the corner of his eye for the rest of the meal. Richie can’t help preening under the attention, however discrete it may be.

They eventually move the party back out into the living room once their plates are empty and their bellies are full. There’s only one couch, a three-seater that’ll be forced to fit four, and one chair, so Mike and Bill and Ben lift a few from around the dining table to take with them.

Richie plops down first, wasting no time in cozying up against the cushions, leaving one throw pillow at his side to rest his arm on and placing the other on his lap. Eddie steals it when he sprawls out next to him, taking up more space than any man his size should be able to. But it’s not space anyone else needs, no; it’s just _Richie’s_ space he’s invading, same as ever. Thighs pressed close, shoulders overlapping, Richie’s limbs twitching like they’re about to grow brains of their own and latch onto Eddie in ways that aren’t at all suitable for the status of their relationship.

Stan and Patty fit in beside them and Mike sets up three of the extra seats on the opposite side of the coffee table while Bill excuses himself outside to wait for Audra’s arrival. Bev curls atop the green chair to Richie’s left, holding hands with Ben after he maneuvers into the spot beside her.

“Can I ask you something, Stan?” Beverly murmurs after several minutes of the TV droning on in the background. She’s got her knees pulled up to her chest, an arm around her shins, head lolled onto Ben’s wide shoulder.

“Go ahead.”

“How did it happen? Not—I mean, I saw… _that_ , in my dreams, but how did you wake up? What was that like?”

The weight of Stanley’s sigh drapes over them all like a woolen blanket.

“Patty would know more about it than I would,” he admits gravely. “I remember drifting. It was like falling asleep, but with more nausea and less, I don’t know, exhaustion? I felt… like I was floating.” Richie digs his fingers into the pillow beneath his arm. “I could see myself sitting in bloody water. A bird’s eye view. That’s when Patty came in. She opened the door, and she looked at me, and she covered her mouth. I remember that she didn’t scream, and when she started crying it was silent. I remember thinking she was in shock, but she rushed over to me, slipping on the water, and she pulled out her phone and wrapped my arms in towels—Hey, hey…” He stops to pull Patricia into his side, hiding her face in the crook of his neck once her shoulders begin to shake. “I’m okay, Patty. I’m alright now. We’re fine.”

“ _Stan_ ,” his wife chokes. 

Richie hears an echo of himself in his own head, sobbing Eddie’s name, pressing his jacket into Eddie’s wound and begging for everything to be okay. He can picture Patricia doing that for Stan, wailing into the phone as she called for help, wrapping his wrists like that would stop him from bleeding out the rest of the way, willing what she’d lost to somehow be returned.

He pulls his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose, hunching his shoulders up to his ears.

“It was dark after that,” he continues slowly, rubbing soothing circles over his wife’s back. “For a very long time. I was surrounded by stars and whispers, the word Gan came up a lot. That’s when the Turtle appeared.” Richie blinks. Sees Stan nodding at Eddie. “Maturin.”

“I never heard that name,” Eddie says. He’s clutching onto a pillow, too. “Couldn’t really hear much of anything, I guess. Except you.” The way he tentatively glances at Richie suggests he wants to add _and you_ before deciding against it.

In any case, Richie isn’t surprised by this the way the others seem to be, since Eddie had told him about his talk with Stan in private. No one interrupts to question it.

“I think it was different,” Stan explains, eyes squinted thoughtfully. “I never really died, I just… slipped away for a while.”

“A coma,” Patricia sniffles.

“You were _gone_ , weren’t you?” he asks Eddie, though his expression suggests that he’s having some trouble parsing through the whole thing. “Completely? But you still ended up where I was, and Maturin said—he’d said something about being sent by Gan, that saving us would be its final task, a reward for our part in defeating the evil. We could come back, if that’s what we wanted. Maturin would bring us back. And then he could rest.”

“So, what?” Richie leans forward, fumbling with his glasses before slipping them back on. “Is this Gan thing a turtle, too? Or a snake? Lizard? Are we gonna have to bow down to our Reptilian Overlords?”

“Richie…” Ben groans.

“What? I’m just wondering. If we need to start sacrificing virgin blood or whatever, I’d like to know sooner rather than later. Hey, Eddie, give me your arm! We’ll start now.”

“ _What?_ ” He rears back, glaring at Richie and balking. “I’m not a virgin, asshole! Did your fucking pea-brain forget that I’m married? I bet _you’re_ the virgin!”

Richie rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, unreasonably upset by the reminder. Stan cuts in before he can snark back with something he’d immediately regret.

“Can you both shut up? I’d say it’s surprising, how much neither of you have changed, but that’d be a lie. I’m disappointed.”

“Sorry, _Dad_ ,” Richie mocks.

“Yeah, _Dad_ , sorry. And fuck off.”

“Guys, stop!” Beverly can’t contain her laughter. She shoots Patricia an apologetic grimace while Richie and Eddie elbow each other like children. The sudden sourness of Richie’s mood fades as he catches sight of Eddie huffing like a toddler.

Quiet voices carry in through the front door when they hear it open down the hall, a low murmur from Bill followed by a soft, cautious reply from his wife, the famous Audra Phillips.

She’s taller than Bev, is Richie’s first thought. Taller than Bill, even, in heels that clack against the spotless floor. She’s a brunette with striking blond streaks instead of a red-head, at least for now, her hair set in a style that’s an inch longer than Bev’s and only slightly less curly. They’ve got different chins and noses, but similar eyes, light and round, and the same pale skin. The two women could be cousins. Maybe even sisters from different misters.

He’d seen billboards of Beverly and Tom when doing shows in New York, and he’d seen trailers for movies that featured Audra Phillips as the main star, and he’d never noticed any sort of resemblance before. If he’d remembered being childhood friends with Beverly Marsh and Bill Denbrough, if he’d remembered the thing that had fizzled between them before naturally burning out, would he have caught the resemblance then?

Perhaps. After all, he’d only realized how much his manager reminded him of Eddie once he actually remembered who Eddie was. He and Bill had sought out reminders of their past feelings, it seems, just like how Eddie and Bev had sought out spouses that could maintain the roles their parents had once commanded. But only Richie had been alone like Ben, in the end. The two of them hung up on loves they both felt they’d never find again.

And then there was Mike, who knew every detail of his childhood, good and bad and ugly; every detail of that fateful summer; every detail of his friends forgetting him, moving on, leaving him behind to keep a promise he hadn’t even been the one to suggest. Richie would’ve gone a little Cuckoo for CoCoa Puffs if he’d been forced to stay in Derry his entire life, too.

Christ. How had _Stanley_ ended up the normal one of the bunch?

“Hey, guys,” Bill says carefully, giving everyone a subtle glare. _Behave,_ the twist of his mouth says. Or _help me._ Richie can’t be sure. “This is Audra, my wife. Audra, honey, these are my best friends from childhood.”

“You mean the best friends you’ve never mentioned to me once the whole time we’ve been together? The best friends you haven’t spoken to in, by your own admission, literal decades? _Those_ best friends? Oh, how nice.”

“Yeah, I know how it sounds, but I told you—”

“Great to meet you all!”

She flashes a chipper smile that hides most of her irritation, though Richie can still see it flashing in her eyes, the same way it always did (does) with Bev. But she grabs Bill’s hand when he reaches for it, tilts her head at him in silent conversation when he catches her eye, lets him tug her farther into the room after gesturing to the people staring at her, Richie included.

Audra blinks in surprise when some of the faces register.

“Beverly Marsh? As in, the _mastermind_ behind Rogan & Marsh? The brand that almost singlehandedly fills my entire wardrobe? _Bill_ _,_ you bastard!” She punches his shoulder, hard. Richie laughs. “Why didn’t you tell me? And—okay, Richie Tozier? That weird funny guy I used to think was Dwight from _The Office_ _?_ Huh. You’re better looking in person, I’ll give you that, but your haircut needs some help. Oh, Hanscom, right? Hanscom & Associates. I remember seeing you all over the news a few years back, you won some big award in architecture. I’ve been trying to talk Bill into modifying our house with some of your designs ever since, but he won’t budge.”

Richie bristles and nudges Eddie when Audra takes a breath, whispers: “Did she just admit to thinking I was ugly, or am I having a stroke? Am I okay in person? I look better in person— is that a compliment or not? Is my hair really that bad?”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie.”

“But am I _ugly,_ Eddie, or am I just not photogenic? Will you answer the damn question? Bill’s wife thought I was Rainn Wilson? He’s, like, a decade older than me! _I’m having a crisis here!_ ”

“No, you’re not ugly! Jesus fuck. Never in a million years would you ever be considered ugly, Richie, so shut up or I’m gonna shove my fist down your throat!”

Richie watches _Eddie’s_ throat bobs on a particularly hard swallow, cataloging the way he squirms. Richie still isn’t sure if these compliments are mere placations or, but Eddie turns away before he can wonder further, slouching with his arms crossed, flushing a soft shade of pink that matches the lampshades, and Richie’s fairly certain that it means _something_.

“This is Mike.” Bill’s voice draws his attention from Eddie’s frown. “Mike Hanlon. And over there is Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Hi,” he says flatly. Richie pats his head, biting his lip when Eddie slaps him away, practically hissing.

“Don’t mind them, they’re always like that. And this is Stanley Uris and his wife, Patricia. We just met her today, but she’s been really great. She made us this huge lunch, there’s a plate for you if you’re—”

“Oh, _god_. Please! I’ve been eating raw vegetables this whole fucking week and I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to _die_ if I don’t eat some real food soon.”

Patty is more than happy to escape to the kitchen with Audra after enduring such a heavy topic of conversation, leaving Beverly and the boys—the Losers Club, all Lucky Seven of them,—behind for however long it’ll to reheat a plate of leftovers.

“She seems nice,” Beverly says encouragingly, after a heavy beat of silence.

Richie scoffs.

“Dude, what the fuck? Bill punched me in the face and now his wife just called me ugly—”

“That was _one time_ , twenty-seven years ago! Get over it, Richie! And she did _not_ —”

“Oh my god!” Eddie screeches, twisting back around so fast that his head winds up slamming into Richie’s nose. He groans and clutches his face. “You’re not _ugly,_ you idiot! Stop fucking saying that!”

“Everyone here is beautiful!” Ben shouts desperately. It _should_ sound a joke, but Richie knows that the fucker really, truly, actually means it. “And I love you all.”

“Yeah, but you love _Bev_ the most,” Richie says, smirking.

Ben rubs the back of his neck, looking drunk when Beverly brackets his face in her hands and presses a loud smacking kiss to his lips.

“And we all know _you_ love _Eddie_ the most, Rich,” Stan teases, raising an eyebrow when Richie turns to stare dumbly. “Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones, as they say.”

A jolt of panic courses through him at Stan’s all-knowing gaze, which is ridiculous considering he’d probably been the first to know, all those years ago, observant as he always was. He’s not even the only one anymore. Richie had said it to Ben outright and Bev’s guess had been inadvertently confirmed when he rushed out on her at the Town House. Bill and Mike… they’d seen Richie at his worst, sobbing over Eddie’s body, begging to go back into that crumbling shack, and Bill had gotten the brunt of Richie’s wrath afterward. They were probably just too polite to say anything without prompting, but there really wasn’t any doubt that they _knew_. Hell, Richie would think them stupid if they didn’t.

But it’s Stan, who hadn’t been there to witness the lowest moment of his life but is looking at Richie like he knows about it anyway, that makes Richie sweat. Especially since he’s _smiling_.

He feels himself begin to sweat.

“Yeah? And so what?” Eddie snips when Richie keeps his mouth shut for too long. He’s laughing, like this is all part of a bit, like there’s no agonizing truth behind the funny wisecrack, and Richie wishes he’d worn a jacket to stick his hands into rather than just the red Hawaiian button-up he’d paired over a wrinkled blue shirt, but the only jacket he’d brought with him remains covered in muck and blood and is buried beneath the backseat of the car he’d left in Derry. “You’re just jealous that you’re no one’s favorite!”

“ _Ed_ _s_ ,” Bill chastises. “Don’t be a dick!”

Stan, who hardly ever used to play along, chuckles amiably.

“My wife would disagree with you, Eddie. What about yours?”

A chorus of _oohs_ , namely from Bev and Ben, causes Eddie to bolt out of his seat, arm raised in the air, ready for a verbal battle, but Richie and Stan pull him back down the second Patty and Audra, holding a tray packed with food and a glass so full of wine it threatens to slosh over every step, bustle back into the room.

“So,” Audra says shortly as she makes herself comfortable in the seat beside Mike. Bill sits down at her other side. “I was told that, when I got here, a meeting for your… Losers Club would begin.”

Bill shrugs when Richie makes a face at him.

“Dammit, Bill. First you’re stealing Eddie’s lines and now you’re stealing mine? At least I pay _my_ writer, you little thief. I’m starting to regret all the times I let you copy off my homework. You owe your passing pre-calc grade to me, buddy.”

“Gotta make sure you guys are good for something, right?”

Stanley snorts, that bitch.

Audra blinks at them all like they’re insane.

“Are we… really doing this?” Ben questions. “We’re gonna bring other people into this mess?”

“It can’t hurt us anymore. It’s over,” Bev says with a shrug, repeating the one thing Richie chants in his mind to keep himself going. _It’s over it’s over it’s over_. “They deserve to know the basics, if Bill and Stan want them to. And then we can move on. It’s about time, don’t you think?”

Richie wants to disagree. No one needs to know their story, they don’t need to bring it up again, dig into memories that are still painful and raw. They can just… slam the pages of that book closed and toss it into a fire, like they did with the tokens. They’d been bullshit, yeah, but physically getting rid of them had helped more that Richie anticipated. 

But the others don’t object to Stan and Bill wanting to share this part of themselves with the people who occupy half their lives, so Richie stays quiet, convincing himself to remain in the moment and let everything else fall away.

With an arm draped around the back of the couch, grazing Eddie’s shoulders and the small patch of skin bared by the sag of his hood and collar, he immerses himself in the steady cadence of Bill Denbrough’s voice.

**===**

_There were four of us, that’s how it started. I’d known Eddie since we were in diapers, and we met Richie and Stan once we were old enough for school. We learned how to count to one hundred, learned all the letters in between A and Z, learned how to swim and ride bikes and sling insults at each other faster than a marble could break a bottle. We did all of that and_ _more, and_ _we did it together._

_I have a little brother._ _We used to do everything together, too. I’d slip him cookies before dinner, read him_ Bunnicula _before bed, take him out in the rain to make mud pies and stomp in puddles. He didn’t_ _tag along_ _with us as a group, he was too young by the time we were able to run around town on our own, but he’d talk to Stan about the sparrows in our backyard, and he’d beg Eddie for a band-aid when he fell and scraped his knee because he was too afraid to_ _tell_ _mom, and he’d_ _laugh_ _himself silly whenever Richie tried to sing the G.I Joe theme song or imitate Daffy Duck._

_There was one day, just one day, where I didn’t feel like playing with him. I didn’t want to go outside and watch over him, make sure he didn’t get lost or hurt, I wanted to stay in bed and read magazines and practice drawing, so I pretended_ _I was_ _sick. It was 1988 and I made a paper boat with Georgie and I told him to be careful before I sent him outside_ _with her_ _._ _But h_ _e never came back._

_I couldn’t accept it_ _,_ _I couldn’t believe he was gone_ _,_ _because that would mean I’d failed as a brother_ _._ _A_ _nd I couldn’t believe that he was dead because that would mean I’d never get to see him again. I looked for him and all the other kids that kept disappearing_ _,_ _until the summer of 1989. Richie, Eddie, and Stan were right there with me, arguing about shitty water and what to do next, and that’s when we met Ben, officially. He’d been in town for a few months by that point, but he’d kept to himself, mostly because of Bowers and his gang of bullies. They’d pick on anyone just to feel better about themselves_ _and_ _Ben, like us, had become another target._

_He’d fallen into the water at_ _t_ _he_ _b_ _arrens, bloodied and bruised, so we biked him_ _over_ _to the pharmacy, where we crossed paths with Beverly. We’d seen her around school for year_ _s_ _. Didn’t really know her, only knew_ of _her. She saw we needed help, though, and took it upon herself to distract Mr. Keene so we could swipe the supplies we needed. Richie kept Ben company until we came back outside, and Eddie patched him up, and Bev came around back to see what was going on. I invited her to the quarry, which meant swimming with a bunch of dumb boys in their underwear, but Beverly never cared about things like that. She showed up the next day, jumped in before any of us could work up the courage, and we followed. That’s the way it was, with us. We always followed each other, no matter what._

 _We met Mike on the Kenduskeag Trail. He lived on the outskirts of town, on his grandfather’s farm, and he’d ride in once in a while_ _for a delivery._ _His bike had a basket, we recognized it easily, sprawled out on the ground next to Victor Criss’_ _s_ _car. He was in trouble, we knew that much, so we r_ _an_ _off to help. Bev through a rock, nailed Bowers_ _on_ _the head, and then Ben threw the next one and pretty soon we were pelting each other with whatever we could find. We yelled and screamed and hit them more often than they hit us_ _, and t_ _hey ran away after a while_ _._ _Mike became part of the group without question_ _, that day, and we_ _became the Losers Club. It’s not like we’d ever felt incomplete before, you know? Not_ _really_ _, but then, standing there, with all of us together? Lucky seven? It was like completing a perfect circle for the first time._ _Knowing that_ this _was_ _how things were supposed to be._

 _But, see… there was something strange about Derry. Something that_ _dun into_ _everything terrible about that town, chewed up and spit it back out_ _scarier and angrier than before_ _. A shadow as dark_ _as the worst parts of the world_ — _racism, sexism, homophobia, antisemitism, abuse, neglect, prejudice_ _, you name it._ _A shadow as large as all of those things combined. And this is going to sound crazy, and you can choose to believe whatever it is you can let yourself understand, but there was something evil about Derry because there was something evil_ under _Derry. Something that could be anything_ _, at any time._ _Something that fed off flesh and fear._ It _. And this thing, this monster, who most often took the form of a clown called Pennywise, knew us better than we knew ourselves._

 _Stanley said it best, once, before we figured out what we were capable of as a whole. He said: ‘When you’re a kid, you think the universe revolves around you. You think that you’ll always be protected and cared for. Then, one day, you realize that’s not true. Because when you’re alone as a kid, the monsters see you as weaker. You don’t even know they’re getting closer until it’s too late.’_ _See, w_ _e needed to be afraid, because that’s what It wanted, and we needed to be alone because we were weak that way, and we believed in what we saw, what It showed us, because we didn’t know any better. But you know what else? When you’re a kid, you think friendship is the most important thing in the world. You think you’d do anything for the people who make you feel good and free, make you feel like you belong, make you feel like being yourself is the only way there_ is _to be, and that there’s no shame in_ _your flaws, they_ _make you invaluable. We learned, that summer, how true all of that was._

_Friendship saved our lives, then. We’d gone into the house on Neibolt street, the cover of It’s den, and something terrible happened to us all. It wasn’t just being faced with the worst facets of our nightmares come to life and it wasn’t just staring death in the face for the first time at age thirteen_ _;_ _it was losing our belief in each other, latching onto all the fear and anger and pain, and shutting each other out in the moments where we needed_ _support the most_ _. Ignorance is bliss until your blindfold_ _gets_ _stolen from you. Then you see everything, including your own_ _weaknesses, your own_ _courage, and then you realize, as dumb and resolute as only a kid can be, that the people you love, the friends you’d do anything for, were the ones keeping your fire alive the whole time._

_Friendship saved our lives, then. And it saved our lives again twenty-seven years later._

_Because we made a promise, after forcing the monster into the dark, that we’d come back if It ever did. We cut our palms and made an oath, and it meant something deeper to each of us. But when that summer ended… it felt like_ we _ended, too._

_I know it was the town, which was built over evil, corrupted by anger and hatred and apathy. And I know it was the clown, the shadow of our childhood fears,_ _following_ _us_ _on chains_ _no matter where we went. That’s why we forgot. The farther away we moved, the harder it was to hold onto, until we couldn’t remember who we’d started as or where we were meant to go; if we were meant to be together again, but couldn’t. Because of Derry. Because of It._

_But part of me likes to think that it was because of us, too. The Losers Club. And I believe that, even as we grew and aged, we wouldn’t have lost those fanciful childhood ideals and beliefs, we wouldn’t have given into the curse of adulthood, where everything is less and less until you feel the bare minimum of_ _every_ _inciting spark, because we would have been together, Lucky Seven, like it was always meant to be. We were that perfect circle, more powerful than anything that could possibly want to stand in our way, and that’s why we had to forget. Maybe it was kismet_ _._ _A_ _ll of us meeting, all of us coming together, all of us falling apart. Maybe it’s kismet that we’re all here now, ready to turn the page and start scrawling over a new surface, dripping ink onto blank spaces and watching the pools flow and spread_ _into a whole new story._

_We missed a lot of each other, and that’s something I’ll always regret. Resent, even. But we’re here now. Older in body, never in heart. We’re here and we won. We beat the devil. And now that we have each other again, I’m never letting go._

_Things will change, of course_ _they will_ _, like they already have. Like they always_ _do_ _. But the one thing that’ll remain the same is what we mean to each other._

_There are seven of us. That’s how_ this _started_ _,_ _that one summer in 1989. And regardless of who we lead in from the outside to join us in the center—_ _that’s how we’ll always be._ _Losers stick together. No matter what. That’s all there really is to know._

**===**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I'd update on Saturdays? Yeah......hahaha. Well, at least it's still once a week!
> 
> Richie and Eddie caring for each other is my life.
> 
> The chapter count has upped by two only because, when I was looking through the (terrible) way I sorted this fic into chapters, I thought that two of them were longer than they needed to be, so I split those parts up into their own chapters. That's all. Nothing's changed story-wise, except that it might be easier for me to edit. 
> 
> Anyway, I just want to continue to thank you guys for reading this fic and I want to especially thank the people who have commented thus far. I lose motivation a lot, like pretty much everyone, but it does truly help to come on here and see that people have left their thoughts because it makes me want to keep going (even when I hate editing and even when ideas for other things come and go and I get frustrated with myself for not being able to do it the way I want). Anyways, thank you and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. <3 Let me know! (extra cute and silly fluff is coming soon) Sorry mistakes, as always. (Especially now since I'm having trouble with my keyboard.)
> 
> [i'll just put the songs here that i mentioned in this chapter in some way: man in the box - alice in chains; all star - smashmouth (no one can tell me richie wouldn't love that song); i touch myself - divinyls; i'm just a girl - no doubt; white and nerdy - weird al yankovic; hold me now - thompson twins.]
> 
> Oh, yeah, I feel I should say, at least once, that I'm just-whelmed on tumblr!


	7. Last Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [warning for: silly dance sequence]

Richie’s a little wine-drunk, admittedly, after all he’d had to drink at dinner and then again during the toast following Bill’s sappy, insightful speech. It’d been, thankfully, pretty light on major details _—_ just enough to appease Patty and Audra while putting a name to some of the bizarre occurrences that surround the lives of their husbands. And they seem pleased, all things considered. Richie can tell that Patty believes a little more than Audra does, either because she’s deep in her faith, which is itself often inexplicable, or because she’d seen it with Stan firsthand. Perhaps even both. But Audra, as skeptical as her frown might seem, still holds Bill’s hand, watching him tenderly as he speaks animatedly to Mike, and Richie wonders, with a pang of pathetic indignation, if Eddie wishes Myra were here to inform or console. He doesn’t think so, but who is he to say? Just a figure from days long gone? Someone who will be dropped into obscurity once life demands to be lived once more?

 _Ugh_. This is supposed to be a celebration, there’s no room for such maudlin thoughts.

“Shoulda called your wife,” he mumbles, rolling his head against the back of the couch to get a better view of Eddie’s profile. He’s not slurring, but his brain feels a little sluggish. “Put her on speaker, let Bill explain all the crazy away. Now you’re gonna have to do it yourself and you suck at explaining shit, Eds. It’s all tangents and rants with you. And screeching. _Lots_ of screeching.”

“Shut up,” he grunts, huffing a breath that sounds loud with how close they are. Richie’s gaze is drawn toward the sudden subtle movement of Eddie’s fingers twisting his wedding ring around. “I’m not explaining anything to her. Maybe I should, I’m a piece of shit for not wanting to, but she wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t even listen. I mean, I get not believing. All this is fucked up, _I’m_ still not even sure about everything that happened, but _shit_ , I’d probably end up in some mental ward if she so much as heard one _word_ of this. And then you guys would have to come bust me out, right? But you’d probably just get yourself thrown in right alongside me and then we’d be fucking _roommates_ , with my luck, and you’d drive me to, like, _actual_ insanity. Which wouldn’t even be the worst part! ‘Cause Myra would wanna come visit me to cry about how I should’ve listened to her all along, and how could I do this to her, and—”

“Tangents and rants,” Richie interrupts, grinning in a way he can _feel_ is far softer than he’d intended.

“Shut the fuck up! I’m being serious right now!”

“ _Aaaaand_ there’s the screeching.”

“Listen to me, asshole—”

“I’m listening!”

Eddie narrows his eyes into barely-there slits, which is a feat considering how big and wide and sparkly they usually are, and starts yapping about something or other, insulting Richie what seems like every other word, and _God_ , he’s so fucking beautiful. It’s criminal, really, and it hits Richie like a semi, not for the first time but still just as impactful, as he _stares_. 

Eddie is… sexy. Richie hates that word but it’s the _truth_ , objectively so. Even if he weren’t so far gone on the little shit already, he would _know_. He’s not _blind_ , not yet, and even if he were he’s sure he could touch Eddie’s face and be like, _yep_ , there’s the soft tip of his nose and the flat line of his mouth and, oh, there are his sweeping lashes and bushy brows and sonnet worthy dimples, and if he smiled, all sunshine warm and sharp with wit… well, Richie would mourn not being able to see it, but his fingertips would graze each expressive crease and wrinkle and a picture in his head would bloom, vivid and beautiful, like patches of wildflowers. Dainty and bright and _resilient_.

He’s small, too. Compact. Firm. He can’t best Richie in pure arm strength, but he’d definitely come first in a race ( _do not think about the short-shorts_ ) and he’d probably also be better at push-ups because of all that core strength, and Lord have mercy, but what about how his ass might look if he did squats or fucking _yoga_ , which he probably legitimately _does_. Richie gets a little sniffly at the idea alone. The point, ultimately, is that anyone with half a brain could see how attractive is. Maybe not in a strictly conventional sense, not like the rest of the Losers (Richie still has a bone to pick with Bev over her false promises!), but very much in a way that seeps into your skin slowly and makes its home there for all of eternity.

Eddie Kaspbrak, the cutest neurotic dork of his childhood, grew up to be the sexiest neurotic dork of his adulthood, two whole fantasies combined into one! Would that be considered luck or tragedy? It’s most likely both.

Richie’s a little drunk and a little horny and a little depressed and a lot pathetic, but also a lot in love. He wants to say it again, out loud, like he had with Ben. Not to Eddie, he’s too much of a coward for that still, but to someone else, _anyone_ else, like it’s a fucking addiction and he can’t go another second without a hit. Saying it to Ben had felt terrifyingly amazing and carving it into the Kissing Bridge had felt the same, in a lot of ways.

So he needs to do it again, now, because his friends tend to be indulgently proud of him and also because he doubts the real thing will go as smoothly as these little test runs. Richie’s always been a ‘take what you can get’ sort of guy anyway.

“Hey, fuckface! Are you even listening to me? You said you were!”

“Nope,” he laughs, which is a product of embarrassment rather than inebriation, but it all feels the same. He doesn’t know what Eddie had been yapping about _—_ probably _not_ his wife, despite Richie having dumbly brought her up, but he’s feeling itchy at the possibility. He ruffles Eddie’s hair and springs up with a protesting crack from his back. “Bev, you got any cigarettes handy? I could really use a smoke.”

“Yeah,” she agrees easily, standing more elegantly than he had and wincing only a little as she stretches her limbs, “me too.” She pets Ben’s hair away from his face, the mirror opposite to what Richie had just done to Eddie, and the implications make his stomach churn nervously. “We’ll be right back.”

They head toward the front door rather than the back, with Eddie trying to trip him as he slides past. The voices of their friends follow them all the way out into the chilly air. He’s surprised to find the sky entirely darkened since that would mean they’d been sitting in Stan’s house for at least six hours. Time really does fly. He’s only ever felt that way with the Losers.

He doesn’t mind being here and there’s no real rush to go anywhere else. He shoots a quick message to his manager as Bev digs into her purse, typing something vague about taking care of personal shit, shutting it off entirely when she lights a cigarette for him and passes it over. He watches the smoke swirl around their heads on the first exhale.

“ _So_ ,” he breathes hoarsely, because he knows Beverly is waiting for him to reveal the reason he’d wanted to come out here in the first place, just the two of them in the privacy only darkness allows,

“So?”

“I’m in love with him.” He swallows hard, cringing at the imagined bitterness that slides down his throat. There’s nothing there but words he needs to say. “With Eddie. Have been for _—_ for a long-ass time. Like, yeah, I forgot, but I didn’t _really_ , you know? There wasn’t a face or a name, but I had this feeling, the same one that was always there. And now it’s worse. Or maybe it’s just _more._ It’s hard to say since he’s the only one I ever, um, yeah. Anyway, there you go. I feel like there should be a little screen between us. _Forgive me father, for I have sinned_ and all that jazz. That’s what they say, right? Probably not at the end, though. I’m not Catholic, I have no fuckin’ clue. Maybe I should go for the tried-and-true diary analogy. _Dear Richie, today your big dumb mouth told two of your best friends that you’re in love with your other best friend_ — _you know, the little shit you used to dream about even when you didn’t know such a little shit existed?_ — _but they haven’t kicked you to the curb yet, so maybe Bob Marley was right all along when he said ‘_ don’t worry ‘bout a thing, ‘cause every little thing gonna be alright.’”

He says that last part in the least offensive Jamaican accent he can muster, which is probably still pretty offensive, so he clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting over the vast expanse of the sky and all the little stars that dot the blackened canvas.

A stretch of silence follows his quiet, overlong admission, backed by steady songs sung from distant cicadas. He peeks over at Beverly once he gathers his bearings, keeping himself open and tall, smiling tightly when the soft look of momentary surprise she gives him gets replaced by a breathtakingly wide smile.

“Ben really got to you, huh?” she teases, rubbing his back in soothing motions. Up and down and up and down, ‘round and ‘round and ‘round. “Richie, I—”

“I know, I know,” he waves away, blowing more smoke with a tired sigh. “You’re so proud, all this mushy shit is great for me in the long run, you knew all along, blah blah blah.”

Beverly bumps her hip into his.

“I _am_ proud, jerkoff. And all this mushy shit _is_ good for you. But I wouldn’t say I knew all along, not really. It’s just… I _do_ remember wondering if you guys just loved bugging the shit out of each other or if all that was some secret convoluted form of flirting two idiot boys made up because they couldn’t do anything else in a town like Derry. And I remember thinking, when you asked Eddie if he was married to a woman, you sounded… I don’t know, upset? Disappointed? But—”

“But it wasn’t ‘til I lost my shit that everything turned obvious. Yeah, I figured.”

“You didn’t just lose your shit, Richie. You lost _yourself_. Or a piece of it. A big one.”

“That’s stupid, though, isn’t it?” He shakes some of the ash away, watches it float gently to the ground. “I mean, I’ve been in love with him since I was thirteen, maybe even twelve, some shit’s still foggy, old age and all, but forgetting didn’t make me get over it, it just… made me cling onto shit I didn’t know I wanted ‘cause I couldn’t remember wanting it before, and then seeing him again—It’s been decades, man, and like— _how_ does that make sense? We don’t even know each other anymore, but at the same time it feels like we do? Or at least I do. I know him. I’ll always know him, really deep down. And I’ll always love him, and that’s so fucking insane, but I can’t do anything about it. I don’t think I would, even if I _could_ , because it’s just part of me at this point. Like, hey, I’m Richie Tozier, my friends call me Trashmouth and I’m in love with Eddie Kaspbrak, you get me? And it hurts and it sucks, but I guess I just… it feels good to say it. Ben was right about that, at least. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell him, half of me wants to but then the partially sane half takes over and is like, yeah, _no_ , bad idea. Real bad idea! _But._ I had to say it again, and I was an ass to you about it before, panicking and deflecting and shit, so I thought, why not? There’s no risk this way. I can get it off my chest and be alright, and it feels good right now, like this fucking adrenaline rush. I could climb onto Stan’s roof—”

“ _Please_ don’t.”

“—and just scream it out for everyone to hear! But then I know I’d fucking slip on some shingles and fall and crack my head open or something like that, and then I’d wanna puke. Not just from the concussion but because I’d realize what I did and how stupid it was, and I try not to regret things, usually, which goes about as well as you’d expect from a closeted middle aged comedian, but sometimes shit just happens and then I’m left alone with all the consequences. And I can’t lose him, Bev. Not again. Not—If we’re gonna remember all of this, _all_ of it, the good and the bad, then I want him in my life. And if I tell him and he—he fucking _hates_ me, or gets weirded out, or starts questioning everything I’ve ever said or done, I’d be miserable. Even more miserable than I am right now. I can’t live without him, okay? And I feel disgusted with myself for thinking that, sometimes, but I know it’s true and I don’t mean it, like, I’d kill myself if he told me to fuck off forever. No, _fuck_ no, I’m not… there, okay. That’s not what this is. I’d just—it’s not gonna be like it was, you know? All of us together all the time. So I’d rather have him alive and out in the world somewhere, telling me Merry Christmas once a year and ‘sorry, can’t talk now’ the rest, or whatever, than have him _gone_ , or ignoring me on purpose. Because I’m a coward, which I feel like we’ve already established, so if that’s how it’s gonna end up without me saying shit to ruin it, then okay, fine, but if he never even wants to say hi to me when we go visit you and Ben wherever your love shack ends up, or look me in the eye, or fucking _touch_ me, all because I couldn’t shut my big mouth—”

“Richie!” Bev says loudly, gripping his hand in hers tightly. His tirade deflates like one of those shitty red balloons he’s seen way too much of in his lifetime. “Richie, what makes you think he won’t want to be part of your life after this? _Really_ part of it? What makes you think he won’t call you up to bitch at odd hours just because he can, or that he wouldn’t bug you until you caved and decided to visit him in New York a few months down the line? Or that he wouldn’t get on a fucking plane for you, Richie, because you know he would. He’d do anything for you, too. _That’s_ something I’ve always known. And what makes you think that, if you told him how you felt, he wouldn’t feel the same?”

“Come on, Bev. Fucking _seriously_ —”

“I mean it, Richie. Why is every outcome a bad one? You’re so blinded by your own issues you won’t let yourself see what’s right there. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I know how he feels or anything like that, I tried talking to him at the rental place but we just kind of ended up commiserating over our _wonderful_ spouses the whole time.” She rolls her eyes at the term, barely stopping short of gagging. “And even if he’d told me something, I wouldn’t be spilling it to you right now, of course not, but… I have eyes, Richie, and ears. And I use my eyes and ears like a normal person, and I think… It’s okay to be scared, it’s _okay_ , but I think you should tell him. Because even if he isn’t _in_ love with you, which I think is highly unlikely but I’ll entertain it for a moment, you know he still _loves_ you, more than he’s ever loved anyone else, and your feelings wouldn’t change that. Not permanently. I think you’re worrying yourself sick over something that could be fairly simple, which I get is easy for me to say, but I’m being honest with you because you were honest with me. And, you know, what if he _does_ feel the same and is just as scared as you are? He deserves to know and you—”

“Deserve happiness or to move forward or whatever. Yeah, yeah. Sounds a little like something Ben told me yesterday.” He squints at her while bending over to snuff the cigarette out against concrete. “Did you guys orchestrate this whole thing? Operation: _Make Richie Look Like A Sappy Mess?_ Is this a prank? Did somebody hypnotize me? Feelings make me nauseous so, fair warning, I might puke again.”

“No, we didn’t orchestrate anything.” She laughs airily, cheeks colored red from more than the temperature. She slaps his bicep with the back of her hand. “It’s _Ben_ , Richie. He wrote me a beautiful poem when we were thirteen and kept my signature in his wallet for twenty-seven years. I think he’s the most romantic person in the world, he doesn’t need _me_ telling him anything.”

“Yeah, I guess. If anyone knows about extreme pining the way I do, it’d be Ben.”

“Maybe. But I love him, you know?” There’s no waver in her voice. Zero uncertainty. “I was confused for such a long time, but going back to Derry, as much as I hate to admit it, made things clear. Ben makes me feel like a person. I know that sounds like the bare minimum, but it’s not. I don’t… I don’t have to worry about being perfect or about what kind of punishment I’ll get if I’m not, I can just be _me_ and feel _good_ about it. And he makes me happy, just by being himself, by making me laugh and smile and appreciating me. _Hearing_ me. He makes things simple and I know that I love him, I’m _in_ love with him, and I think there’s a piece of me that always has been, it was just hard to find between the way I left things with Bill, plus all the jumbled memories and way, way too much time. But none of that matters now because we found each other again, and we can start over together. I want that for all of us, Richie. I want that for you and Eddie. One of you just needs to take that leap, as far as I’m concerned. So I won’t say a word to anyone because it’s not my business, but I think you should tell him. I really think you should.” She pulls him into a hug without warning and he melts into it without thought. Beverly Marsh is the sister he never knew he wanted and somehow always had. “And, hey, if it works out I’ll only say ‘ _I told you so_ ’ once, I promise. And if it doesn’t, then... I’ll be there for both of you, to make sure things don’t fall apart. Think about it, okay? Please?”

He swallows thickly, smiles through the irritating tightness in his chest.

“I already was, but I guess I can think a little harder.” 

She nods, curls bouncing, and pats his scruffy jaw.

“That’s the spirit.”

“Hey, uh… thanks, Bev. For the advice and also for letting me be a whiny bitch in peace.”

“You’ve always been a whiny bitch. Nothing new there.”

“Wow, okay, kick a guy while he’s down. Fuck you too, Molly!”

Bev snorts. It should be unattractive, but Ben would probably have hearts in his eyes if he’d been around to hear it. (He pictures the weird cackling laugh that sometimes explodes out of Eddie and nearly melts into a pile of goo, so… fair.)

“Love you, Rich. Now come on. We’ve been out here a while. Eddie’s probably picked a fight with someone by now.”

They head back in after another minute or so of fresh air, kicking their shoes off in the foyer and accepting the sanitizer Eddie, with great concentration, squirts into their palms the second they sit back down.

“We were just talking about what we should do tomorrow,” Bill informs them while trying to get comfortable against the stiff dining chair. “Stan doesn’t mind playing Tour Guide for us, if we’re set on sticking around for a couple of days.”

“ _Doesn’t mind_ ,” Richie mutters mockingly. He tries to corral his legs into better position, which is hard to do when Eddie’s feet are kicked so far out that their ankles hook together. “Yeah, right. He’s probably popping a boner just thinking about all the juicy little factoids he can share.”

“Richie, come on.” Ben leans over Bev to say this. “Patricia’s right there. Let’s be a little more polite.”

“Oh, uh, sorry?”

“I was thinking the Atlanta zoo,” Stan says loudly. He clasps his hands in his lap and looks over with a smirk. “Richie’s home away from home.”

“If that means I’ve earned the right to fling my shit at random people, then I’ll accept your insult with gratitude.”

“Do you always have to be so gross?” Eddie demands, though it’s more lighthearted than his usual complaints. He makes himself laugh when the glass of water he waves around spills onto Richie’s lap. “Dude, it looks like you pissed yourself!”

“Now who’s the one being gross? And I actually did, for your information. Yeah. Weak bladder. It probably spread all the way over to you by now, through the fabric. If you’re suddenly feeling damp—”

“ _Oh fuck!_ ”

He throws his head back when Eddie nearly crashes into the table during his attempt to get away. Taking pity on him, Richie grabs the hem of Eddie’s jacket and tugs.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! _Fuck,_ you should’ve seen your face!”

“Shut the fuck up. I—I knew that! I was just—”

“Do you really think I’d piss my pants, man? Jesus.”

“Weak bladders are a serious issue for men our age!” Eddie screeches, even as he allows himself to be manhandled into sitting down. “That’s a sign of an enlarged prostate—!”

“Okay, okay, how about we circle back around to the zoo thing?” Bill asks through coughs and giggles. Richie is thankful to get off any topic that involves _Eddie_ and _prostates_ in the same sentence. “It’s a good idea, right?”

“We can meet at the entrance around 9,” Stan suggests.

Patty sits up a little straighter, expression alight with excitement.

“Oh, Stan and I can come up with an itinerary tonight! We’ve been there plenty, we know all the best spots and times. We should probably hand out maps, too. It might be a good idea to study them a little before we go in, just so you don’t waste the whole day getting lost.”

“That’s a great idea.” Stan kisses her cheek sweetly. Richie finds himself smiling in the face of Stan’s well-deserved happiness. “We can wait a little while, though. Maybe do something else before the night ends?”

“Aww,” Beverly coos. “Having a good time, Stanley?”

“Well, I’m not having a _bad_ time.”

“So, what, you wanna play a game or something?” Eddie, who leans over Richie’s lap to set his glass onto the side table, gets his ear flicked. “Like Parcheesi? I bet you have Parcheesi. Or some shitty collector’s edition of Monopoly. Wait, what about Scrabble? Or Yahtzee! Dude, please say you have Yahtzee. I fucking _love_ Yahtzee.”

“Of course you do. Nerd alert!”

“Oh, you’re one to talk. You were like fuckin’ Lovelock in school—”

“I mean, maybe, but you—”

“I have an idea!” Beverly calls, practically singing the words as she hops up to bounce on her toes. “Stan, turn your stereo on.”

He does as she asks by having Patricia hand him a remote from the table closest to them, pressing a button that blinks a light beneath the TV into existence. Beverly has a gleam in her eyes when she looks up from her phone and taps the screen with a note of finality. A beat shakes through the speakers, loud and clear, and it takes less than a second for Richie to recognize the song. He bites his lip and raises his brows at Eddie, endlessly amused by the way the smaller man blocks the side of his face with a raised middle finger.

Bev sways on the spot, the longer the intro goes on, tiny movements rolling from her shoulders and hips, her mouth stretched into happy grin.

“Ben!” she waves him over with both hands. “ _Ben_. You can’t leave me hanging!”

The music really starts kicking in then, causing Beverly to start swaying a little more intensely, motioning for Ben, who’s blushing like crazy, to join her with renewed vigor. He scrubs at his face and groans

“Bev, Beverly, I’m so sorry. I’m so—I can’t dance! I can’t—”

“So, Mr. Perfect has a flaw, huh?” Eddie chuckles, arms crossing over his chest.

“Hey, yeah, that’s like the ultimate betrayal, Ben. You can’t let your girl embarrass herself alone!”

“Fuck you, Trashmouth,” she replies breezily, not once wavering in her movements. “You’re awful friends. All of you.”

_‘Clock strikes upon the hour and the sun begins to fade. Still enough time to figure out how to chase my blues away…’_

He feels a wave of emotions surge through him at the sight of Beverly twirling around, ignoring her stoic audience. The song itself is like a time machine, transporting Richie back to his youth, back to all the days they’d play the tape that had this song on its tracklist. One memory, in particular, holds this song in high regard. One of the best.

Bev’s going away party.

_‘I’ve done alright up to now, it’s the light of day that shows me how…’_

It used to be one of Eddie’s favorite songs, right up there with almost anything by Kate Bush. He didn’t want anyone to know because he was embarrassed, though he’d bob his head to it all the same if it came on during one of their random hangouts, either in Richie’s room or in the clubhouse or at the quarry. Surprisingly, Richie had kept Eddie’s secret as closely guarded as he’d kept his own, though he supposes that the smirky grins he’d always send Eddie’s way made things a little more obvious. For both of them.

Beverly, spinning around the way she is, looks free from chains and burdens, uncaring of anything else aside from this very moment. So what’s stopping Richie from feeling the same? He’d never cared about acting a fool in front of his friends. Making them laugh until they cried, egging them on until they’d joined in, annoying them until they whined and shoved—those were things he used to revel in. Performing on stage in front of thousands, wearing a mask that makes him what people think he should be, spouting bullshit he hates like a ventriloquist dummy… forget _all_ of that nonsense. _This_ is what it’s all about.

Plus, he might owe her just a tad for listening so patiently to his word vomit out front.

‘ _And when the night falls, loneliness calls…’_

He stands, shakes out his limbs, strides around the coffee table to offer a hand to Beverly. She takes it happily, using his steady strength to wind herself closer before they start hopping and flailing like idiots.

‘ _Oh, I wanna dance with somebody. I wanna feel the heat with somebody. Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody. With somebody who loves me…’_

She starts singing the words, so Richie does the same, and they nod their heads until they’re a blur of hair and limbs. Richie’s glasses slide down the bridge of his nose.

_‘Oh, I wanna dance with somebody. I wanna feel the heat with somebody—’_

Ben joins them then, still embarrassed but willing to try, just like always. He’s beaming when they reach for him at the same time, all three joining hands to make a triangle of sorts, their terrible footwork never stopping once.

_‘—Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody. With somebody who loves me…’_

Cheers erupt all around, mingling with heavy breaths and off-tune singing and the music itself, surrounding them in a cage of vibrations. Richie catches sight of Bill standing, pulling Audra to her feet, followed by Mike. They get close to the trio without quite joining, but Richie can hear Bill shouting purposefully into his ear, so he laughs and kicks backwards when they turn, catching someone behind the knee.

_‘I’ve been in love and lost my senses, spinning through the town. Sooner or later, the fever ends and I wind up feeling down…’_

He can see Stan and Patty as they grin at each other, leaning halfway off the couch like they might join any second. Richie, voice breathy and wobbly, goads him into it easily with a simple obnoxious call. The couple moves to the left of Bill, Mike, and Audra, and treat the music as if it were something slow, using it as an excuse to hold each other close.

And then there’s Eddie, so unabashedly soft and amused from his spot mere feet away, looking at Richie and _nowhere else_ with crinkled eyes and a finger crooked above his mouth. Richie stumbles.

‘ _I need a man who’ll take a chance on a love that burns hot enough to last. So when the night falls, my loneliness calls.’_

He mouths the words instead of singing them, more so out of the need to breathe than the desire to be coy, and caps it off with a cheesy grin, spinning away from Eddie’s laser-focus to use both of his long arms to twirl Ben and Bev at the same time.

_‘Oh, I wanna dance with somebody—’_

He nearly tips forward at the sudden weight that flies into his back, though he manages to stop himself quickly enough for his knees to not buckle and hit the ground. There’s no need to look over his shoulder to know who’s got a death grip around his neck, he just hooks his arms beneath the solid pair of thighs that squeeze his sides and holds on tight. The dizzying circles he propels them into only cease once Eddie claws sharply at Richie’s hair with a screaming laugh he hasn’t heard in literal years.

‘ _I wanna feel the heat with somebody. Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody_ _, w_ _ith somebody who loves me. Oh, I wanna dance with somebody, I wanna feel the heat. Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody. With somebody who loves me…’_

They’re all dancing in some way, once Richie bends for Eddie to hop down. Bev and Ben are tangled up with each other, her socked toes standing on the tops of his. Stan and Patty aren’t going as slow as before, but they’re tilting in perfect unison, so much so that it makes Richie wonder if it looks at all like the first dance from their wedding. Bill and Audra are in a similar boat, albeit with more cursing because they can’t manage to stay on beat, and also far more blatant kissing. Mike’s having a good time on his own and appears to actually know what he’s doing, saluting Richie when he opens his eyes. 

Eddie’s fingers circle Richie’s wrists in an attempt to get his attention. It works, of course. Richie could never look away from Eddie for too long.

‘ _Somebody, ooh. Somebody, ooh. Somebody who loves me…’_

It isn’t long before they’re grappling, keeping upright but just barely, with Eddie swinging their arms in abandon and Richie leading them into jumps and spins. Eddie presses down onto Richie’s shoulders, forcing him to duck simply so he can twirl Richie properly, and when it’s Richie’s turn he does the unexpected by grabbing around Eddie’s middle to lift him off the ground.

He hollers and squirms for the short duration it lasts, then drags Richie over to Mike so that Richie can look stupid because Eddie _also_ seems to know what he’s doing, as far as rhythm goes, which isn’t all that surprising but still somehow _is_.

_‘Somebody, ooh. Somebody, ooh. To hold me in his arms, oh. I need a man who’ll take a chance on a love that burns hot enough to last.’_

The moment is surreal, if Richie is present enough to think such things. He sees his friends as they are now, tired and rumpled and looking good for over thirty but looking their age nonetheless, and then he sees them as they used to be. Small and awkward and uncoordinated, with soft features and softer hair, brazen the way kids are and c _ool_ like only losers could be, a paradox that Richie has always loved.

Ben’s eyes are the same, shaped almost like almonds beneath low brows, and his button nose rests above graying facial hair, his smile as big and kind as ever. Bev’s hair is just as fiery, her eyes just as sparkling, her grin just as crooked, but there’s an aura around her that’s wise and loose and blissful. Bill pouts like he used to, unconsciously as he concentrates, and his hair is more brown than auburn—more gray than brown, even, at least at the front—but he moves with confidence that outpaces skill, and the way his gaze moves across the room reveals a mind that never stops thinking of what comes next. Stanley appears serene with no stoicism to be seen, but the crinkle of his nose is still there, as well as the bounce of his curls, which he never once swipes away from his forehead, always secure in himself despite the world being a massive mess of unknowns. Mike’s smile is giddy in its own contained structure, the lines on his forehead as serious as back then but heavier with age and responsibility, stripes earned from all his time spent wallowing in Derry.

And Eddie, well, he’s changed the least, in some respects. There are several little differences, no doubt about it, like how much thinner his lips have become, how much deeper the dimples are now that they’re set in hollow cheeks, how much longer his chin and nose have grown. He’s soft, still, with hard edges and fierce vibrancy, and has an exuberant laugh that makes Richie’s heart soar because it’s fucking ridiculous and amazing and so, so _Eddie_ _,_ no matter the change in pitch or frequency.He’s aware of his own changes, too. Tries not to view them so negatively when Eddie meets his stare head-on. His hair is flatter, doesn’t want to curl as much, and his lips somehow shrunk despite his mouth having gotten wider. his eyes are a little bit lighter—though, sadly, even _blinder_ —and his jaw is still square but its capable of growing patchy facial hair now and does so constantly, and he’s taller than he’s ever been, gangly in some ways and firmer in others.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself, watching Eddie watching him, until he’s shoved backward into the group that’s been forming into a crowd during his absentmindedness. He finds that he likes being shoved around by Eddie a little too much, tries to play it off casually when the butterflies swarm his tummy again, telling himself seriously: _do not blush._

_‘So when the night falls, my lonely heart calls. Oh, I wanna dance with somebody. I wanna feel the heat with somebody. Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody, with somebody who loves me……’_

They bump into each other with vigor as the tempo changes. Socked feet slide dangerously atop the wooden flooring, elbows and thighs knocking, fingers curling into shirts and sweaty hair. He kicks Bill in the ass, hooks Stanley’s head under his armpit, accepts Bev’s sloppy kiss to his cheek like a badge of honor. Eddie tries to show Ben some fancy footwork, which is too intricate for Richie to follow, while Mike shows Audra and Patty a better way to twist their hips.

“Dance! Dance! Dance!” they chant along with the song. Richie and Ben shove Eddie into the center, where Bill shoves Mike and Bev, and they’re howling and crooning and clapping when the three indulge the demands being thrown at them.

Bev’s a whirlwind of grace and silliness, Mike a hurricane of class and prowess, Eddie a tornado of untamed energy and individuality. Richie has no idea what the hell is happening, but it’s a beautiful trainwreck that’s good and fun and _hilarious_. He and Ben pat each other on the backs in weak attempts at getting some air back into their lungs.

Eddie flies back over to Richie in a flash, so roughly that he thinks he might fall over again. He’s not jumped on this time, just jumped _into_ , like he’s been hit by a tiny torpedo, and so he bundles Eddie up in his arms and drags him around the room, feeling winded and sore and like he might drop dead at any fucking minute but his cheeks are getting squished between two soft hands and he’s being serenaded by sappy lyrics screeched into his face, and he’s content with the moment and with himself, having the time of his life.

‘ _Whoa-oa-oa-oa-oa-oa. Don’t you wanna dance with me, baby? Don’t you wanna dance with me, boy?_ _Hey, don’t you wanna dance with me, baby? With somebody who loves me! Don’t you wanna dance, say you wanna dance, don’t you wanna dance? Don’t you wanna dance, say you wanna dance, don’t you wanna dance? Don’t you wanna dance, say you wanna dance, uh-huh.’_

He’s saved from the pain and humiliation of falling into and breaking the glass table he trips over by a well-placed shove from Eddie, who pinwheels when Richie grabs the front of his jacket, which is unzipped and hanging halfway off his shoulders, in order to bring them both down onto the couch with audible grunts.

Eddie, who is very snugly pressed against the whole front of Richie’s body on a horizontal surface, bops him on the forehead and fixes his skewed glasses. Richie can see him in perfect clarity, suddenly, as close as he is, and can bare witness to the tiny faded blink-and-you’ll-miss-it freckles that still adorn Eddie’s nose after all this time.

‘ _With somebody who loves me…’_

The music fades and another song follows, though Richie’s breaths are coming too fast and his heartbeat too hard for him to hear what it is. Eddie’s not really faring any better. He’s heaving so much that Richie worries he’ll work himself into a panic, but nothing of the sort happens. He’s _fine_ and Richie is _fine_ , and they’re sharing air, mouths mere inches apart, and—

It’s intense, the way they simply exist together, as the others stop and settle in various states of exhaustion after a measly five minutes of mild partying. Eddie, cross-eyed from their close proximity, inspects Richie curiously, so Richie observes him intently in turn, stuck between bricking up the gap in his crumbling walls or taking a sledgehammer and pummeling them into dust completely.

But there’s a middle option, a method that’s tried and true. He can leave the walls as they are, ready to tumble over with one strong gust of wind (or a hundred hot puffs of air from Eddie’s parted lips), leave the gap knowing it’s big enough for unwanted emotions to come and go whenever they please, and he can tread deeper into himself, deflecting with humor and distraction, but just for now, as he continues on this shaky train of indecision, until he knows for certain how to take the plunge.

Licking the tip of Eddie’s nose makes his entire face screw into an unattractive grimace, and yet, to Richie, it’s one of the cutest things he’s ever seen. _Cute,_ on a fucking grown adult male. He can’t even laugh about it, can only sit there wearing what he’s sure is the dopiest expression known to man, sighing with relief and regret when Eddie scrambles off him with a stream of curses and complaints. He doesn’t go far, though, choosing to slot himself on the other end of the couch and pressing one leg between Richie’s, crossing the other over top, tipping his toes up underneath Richie’s chin and making his teeth clank.

“I think I popped a hip out of place,” Bill wheezes, propped against the dining chair rather than sitting on top of it, head lolled to the side so Audra can run her fingers through his hair.

“Yeah?” Richie huffs, gripping the instep of Eddie’s foot to stop it from wandering. “I think I broke my back trying to carry this fat ass gremlin around.”

“ _Excuse_ me? I’m in the average percentile of height _and_ weight for an American male my age, okay? It’s not my fault your spine’s so weak from holding up that Rushmore-sized head!”

“I’m a little winded myself,” Mike admits, batting away their insults like a pro. “Guess sitting around the library for days on end is finally catching up to me, huh?”

“Well, I, for one, feel fine,” Beverly declares. She’s winded, though, and starts coughing raggedly soon after.

Eddie makes a noise of disgust.

“Yeah, I’m sure your blackened lungs would agree to disagree with you right about now.”

Ben casts Eddie a _Look_ and proceeds to pat Beverly gently on the back.

“Want me to get you some water?”

She shakes her head and strokes his cheek, and before Richie can witness a nauseating kiss his attention is jostled away by Stan lifting Eddie bodily by the shoulders. He has to crawl onto Richie’s lap—which, _oh no_ —just to stop himself from falling onto the floor, and then Richie’s being _straddled_ by those lean legs, hands flying automatically to Eddie’s hips, resting solidly there to keep them both upright. He chokes on a gasp. 

“You fucking _asshole_ ,” Eddie hisses in Stan’s direction, scrambling to get off Richie’s lap, red-faced but strangely subdued. He manages to fit himself at the very edge of the sofa, one of his thighs draping over Richie’s knees while the other half of his body threatens to slip off the cushion entirely. Richie continues to hold onto him, instinctively keeping him near, _safe_ , with an arm thrown halfheartedly around his middle. He uses the rest of his brain power to save himself from spontaneous combustion.

“It’s _my_ couch,” Stan explains, not at all bothered by the tense grumpiness oozing from the two friends beside them, focusing only on making room for Patty on his right. “Do you guys…” he starts, then stops to think, to breathe. “This is going to sound morbid and probably a little too topical, maybe juvenile, perhaps all of the above, but… tonight’s the first time in a long while that I’ve felt this _alive_. Since before I turned thirteen, I think. That’s not to say I haven’t been happy.” He takes Patty’s hand in his and laces their fingers together; delicate and loving, the way he might treat an injured bird. “I _have_ been happy, extremely so, but this is…”

“I know what you’re saying.” Eddie is the first to reply. “I mean, I guess technically I should say I haven’t felt this alive since the _last_ time I was alive—”

“Dude.”

“But, for me, it was probably, like, my last night in Derry? Yeah, yeah, I think…”

Mike’s eyes spark with instant recollection. Richie’s a little jealous that he, himself, is left wracking his brain in an attempt to find the same long-lost memory.

“We spent hours in town.” Mike addresses everyone when he speaks, spending extra time nodding at Eddie, Richie, and Stan since they were the only ones who’d been there with him by that point “I left the farm early, 6am, so we could hang out all day. Brought breakfast in a basket, everything homemade. We snuck into Richie’s house to eat at the table, then snuck up to his room to watch a bunch of VHS tapes. _Wayne’s Word_ and _My Cousin Vinny_. Richie had picked ‘em out specifically for that day. And Eddie brought a pack full of snacks he’d helped his Ma clear out of the kitchen, and we had every crumb cleared away by the time the movies were over. But we couldn’t sit still for long, ended up rushing out, high on sugar, racing down the street, shouting at the top of our lungs ‘til anyone that happened to be strolling by stopped and shook their fists. The high school was our first stop. It was the dead of summer, Stan said not even the janitor was gonna be around yet, so he broke us in. And we just… ran down the halls, screamed _fuck you_ to Derry and banged on lockers and slid down the stairwell. That’s how we ended up in the basement, where they kept a bunch of costumes, which of course we tried on. Eddie didn’t want to, at first, I’m sure you can imagine. ‘Cause of all the dust. And he was freaked out over who might’ve worn them before, said he _knew_ nothing had been washed in _years_. But the sight of Richie in a poodle skirt, with these baggy jeans peeking out under the hem, and Stan in some big floppy hat with three feathers poking on top… it was _fun_. Not a lot of things were, by then, but I remember _that_ was. I think Eddie put on this crazy purple shirt, it was satin or something, and Richie _somehow_ convinced him not to take it off.”

“He convinced him to _steal_ it, you mean,” Stan corrects, glancing at them knowingly from over his nose.

Mike chuckles softly. Fondly. Revisiting those memories easily—like they’re old, reliable friends instead of distant acquaintances you desperately want to reconnect with.

“We stopped at the library to root around in the books they were selling for a nickel, then at the video store to return everything we’d watched that morning, and _then_ at the barrens, ‘cause we had to, right? Replay all the greatest hits? We never stayed in one spot too long, though. Skipped some rocks and left. The quarry came next and we swam for a while, played some tunes and joked around, didn’t want to talk about what was on all our minds, but I could see it in all of us. How scared we were to say goodbye.” Mike gives Richie a searching look, as if to say _‘especially you,’_ but he spares him the call-out and sends Bill a grateful smile when he squeezes his arm. Richie swallows and stares straight ahead. “The clubhouse… we hadn’t been down there in a while, had we? Not since Ben left the summer before. Maybe we felt like we were getting too old or maybe the place seemed empty with only four instead of seven, I don’t know. But we just stood around, quiet, not touching anything, not looking too hard, and then we climbed back out like we’d never been there at all. I suggested we go to the baseball field after that. It was getting dark and we were getting tired, and by the time we walked our bikes over the guy in the ice cream truck was packing up, but he let us get vanilla cones anyway. Oh, we passed by The Capitol first! I remember ducking inside for a few minutes, and there was a claw machine that most people started ignoring the real games for, remember? And we only had enough money for one of us to try so we told Stan he could. Eddie kept yelling in his ear like it would help, but it ended up pissing them both off, so Stan decided to keep the toy for himself. Eddie was _pissed_ —”

“The stupid walrus was puke colored with a crooked eye and I didn’t even _want_ it, but was the principle of the thing!” Eddie insists, perhaps with less vigor than usual. He and Stan share a private smile, letting the moment fill with color before drifting off.

“He got so pissed he made Richie give him a piggyback ride the rest of the way to the field, which left me and Stan pushing two bikes each. It was kind of impossible, but I didn’t really mind. It meant more time together. But the night got quiet, as nice as it was sad. The four of us laid out on the grass for a while, near the middle of the diamond. Stayed like that for what must’ve been an hour, maybe two, maybe more. And we talked for some of it, sure, but… but mostly we just looked up at the stars and waited.”

“For Eddie’s watch to beep,” Richie adds in a meek little whisper. He feels, now, like he did way back then, like he’s on the precipice of losing Eddie all over again. Somehow, it stings worse than before.

But Eddie is at his side, his warmth seeping through Richie’s clothes, soaking him down to his bones, reassuring him that Eddie is alive and _here_ , not gone from their group, not gone forever. They’re not in Derry anymore, a blessing after so long being cursed, and they’re still remembering what they’d lost, slowly but surely, and everything is _okay._

It could be more than _okay_ , maybe, if Richie would _try_.

He bites off a loose piece of skin on his lip, tastes blood on the tip of his tongue.

“We had you home before nine, like your mother wanted. She was angry that you didn’t helped her finish loading everything up,” Stan says slowly, parsing through something thick in his head. Richie spots him turning to look past him, square at Eddie, with darting, narrow eyes. “But you were referring to something else, weren’t you, Eddie?” Another memory hits Richie upon hearing Stan’s words. He tenses, hands forming into fists on his lap. “You said your last _night_. I don’t think anything we did together that day would have made your _night_ extra special, unless you really enjoyed that little bit of stargazing...”

“Umm,” Eddie hums, ever so eloquently. Richie has to huff a laugh, though he’s also silently cursing Stan for being so fucking observant. There’s no getting around this.

“He snuck back out at eleven,” he murmurs after a rather lengthy pause. He can see it in the distance, Eddie stepping out his front door, nearly as tall as he is now, in baggy shorts and a frayed sweater.

“I _did_.” Eddie sounds almost breathless with delight. “My mom was sleeping in her chair, I was gonna help her move it to the van in the morning, and I was on the floor where the TV had been _forever_ , on those shitty old wool blankets and a lumpy pillow. There was so much fucking dust in the air ‘cause of all the shit we’d been packing, my lungs were on fire, but I kept looking at my watch every few minutes, like I could make it go faster, but then it was finally time and my mom was snoring so loud I knew she wouldn’t hear it if I walked right out the front door, so I did. Richie… Richie was was waiting on the curb.”

The words flow through Eddie easily now, causing pictures to light up behind Richie’s eyelids, flashing and flaming, as if someone flipped a switch after too long in the dark. They’re bright, blurry, chunks of a scene he feels shouldn’t be shared, not out in the open like this, but what’s the harm, really? Time capsule’s are meant to be opened, after all.

There’s not even much to tell.

Richie had made _grand plans_ that night, had thought he’d tell Eddie with _grand gestures_ just how far past friendship his feelings had run.

He’d swing by Eddie’s after the others left, which implied some kind of secret, the desire to be alone, and he’d nervously hoped Eddie would pick up on that, no words needed. They’d take a walk in the moonlight, shoulders brushing every step, maybe the backs of their hands, and he’d let his mouth flap with whatever stupid shit came to mind just so he could hear Eddie’s annoyed little giggles.

The Kissing Bridge… that had been the destination in mind. He’d let them stand there for a moment, breathing together until their heartbeats were in sync, and he’d pull out the cassette he’d been hoarding since he’d started making it sometime in 1988, kept hidden for years beneath a loose floorboard in his room before being moved into the very back of a messy drawer, the more he thought on its meaning, and he’d give it to Eddie because he was leaving regardless. They’d already promised to stay friends and… well, if Eddie _did_ want to stop talking to him, Richie could chalk it up to simply growing apart, like he had done with Bev and Bill and Ben. He’d know the _truth_ , if it came to that, but he wouldn’t have to believe it, not with Eddie out of state, unable to tell Richie to his face _why_ he’d ended up hating him.

He remembers the weight of the cassette in his back pocket, remembers how he’d tried to keep it wound tight after nights he’d pop it in for a few minutes of pathetic yearning; preserved properly, save for the peeling label that had been titled with his go-to defense mechanism— _For Eddie’s Mom—_ that in no way matched the sickening 80’s love songs he’d begun selecting before the clown had ever been a blip in their lives. He was going to hand it over, a rather subtle move considering Eddie wouldn’t know _what_ was on it until he listened to it miles and miles away, but the timing would be another clue, he was sure of it. Along with his perpetually sweaty palms.

And then he’d pull out the big guns.

_R + E_

Richie had planned to show his handiwork to Eddie that night. _Nothing to lose_ , he’d thought—except the person he loved most, who he was _already_ losing, even if just to distance. Eddie had been watching him carefully, uncharacteristically quiet, staring so long it began to become meaningful, and he’d been close, so close that Richie swore their pinky fingers hooked together, right there in front of the rickety wooden slats, and he’d said _R i c h i e_ in the faintest of breaths, uncertainty—for the future, for that very instant—tinging every letter.

But those _plans_ and _gestures_ had fizzled once the very real reality of what was about to happen and what could happen _after_ or _because of_ began to creep in and curl around his spine, so he’d chickened out. What else was new? 

Richie had steered Eddie away from the bridge and took the long path back to his house, bullshitting the whole way. Once they’d climbed up to his room he’d shoved the tape back into the drawer, behind a pair of grass-stained socks, and yanked out a deck of cards Bill had given him for his birthday one year. He’d put a Queen tape into his Walkman, the stereo would’ve woken his parents for sure, and they left the headphones to blare on the bed beside their crossed knees as they decided on playing Slapjack. Fast-paced, exciting, violent. Their favorite.

They’d erupted into snorts and shrieks more than once, drowning out the tiny melodies that could barely be heard over their hushed whispers, forced to cover their mouths to make sure Richie’s parents weren’t storming down the hall. He’d wanted so badly to get up when Eddie smiled so sweetly at him, wanted to grab the cassette again, hand it over once and for all...

His well-worn volume of _Watchmen_ had become his offering instead. 

( _So you don’t forget about me in fancy-schmancy NYC._ )

“What’d you do?” Ben leans forward to ask after an uncomfortably long stretch of silence. Richie had zoned out. By the looks of things, Eddie had as well.

“Not much of anything,” Eddie tells them, and it’s the truth, technically, but he’d said that night had made him feel alive and Richie can’t help wondering _why_. “We just sat there, ‘til like 4am, doing the most boring shit a teenager could do. But it was just this moment of quiet we hardly ever got, especially… ‘specially me and Richie, and it wasn’t sad or anything, like it could’ve been, it was just us being us. Nothing else mattered. I never wanted that to end, y’know? And now that I remember—well, not _everything_ , but close enough—I know _that_ was the last time I ever felt like myself, sitting around doing fuck-all in Richie’s filthy bedroom.”

They’d walked back to the house Eddie was leaving behind after watching the sunrise through the window, arms crossed on the sill, elbows rubbing. His mom had been awake and livid, dead-set on taking Eddie away early, a cruel and unusual punishment for their combined misbehavior. Richie bought time by offering to help Eddie shove her chair into the van and she’d obliged with little grumbling, watching every move like a hawk. He remembers squeezing Eddie’s hand behind the large cushioned backing, shoving that threadbare piece of furniture in wherever it could fit while still being able to slam the door down.

She’d driven off well before the time Stan and Mike had promised to be over to say goodbye, leaving Richie behind with an ache in his chest that had never gone away.

It’d been the last time he’d seen Eddie, up until just days ago, but not the last time they’d spoken.

Because Eddie _had_ called him once he’d settled into New York. He complained about the noise, the pollution, the rude pedestrians, the _smell_. He complained about the Aunt he was supposed to care for, despite never having heard of her for most of his life, and he complained about the high school and the weather. He complained about how he’d suddenly developed some new allergy, as diagnosed by his mother, and Richie wondered _why_ Eddie believed her when he knew what she was like. It was one thing to carry around an inhaler for asthma you didn’t have because the habit was too hard to break so quickly, but it was another thing entirely to forget you were, in fact, reasonably healthy and had a nasty liar for a mother.

The calls came without fail while Richie slogged through his senior year, but it hadn’t taken long for _every day_ to become _every other_ _day_ , which then became _twice a week_. Eddie always _knew_ Richie, undoubtedly, when he answered the phone, and was happy to babble and listen, though there were times where it seemed as if he merely hummed along to whatever Richie wanted to talk about, like he didn’t really _know_ what the topics were or what he was supposed to say and was simply being agreeable. And the longer Richie spent away from Eddie the harder it was for him to cope with the idea that Eddie was becoming too busy for him. Or, worse, that he just didn’t _want_ to talk to Richie anymore. So when the calls stopped, Richie picked up the slack and dialed the number dutifully whenever he could, relishing in Eddie’s voice each time it rang clearly across the line. He’d felt like he was simultaneously gaining something and losing something whenever he heard his favorite laugh.

Tests and graduation cut into his Eddie Time (although he _always_ seemed to be free enough to worry about Eddie becoming just another Bev, Bill, or Ben, the miracles of terrible self-esteem!), and by the time he’d been able to pack up his shit and leave for good he realized he’d lost the folded slip of paper containing Eddie’s details somewhere along the way. Rather than asking Mike to copy it out of his address book like any rational person would, he waited for Eddie to call _him,_ just to prove that everything was okay. That things had gotten hectic. That Eddie missed Richie as much as Richie missed him.

And when there’d been nothing for three entire months, Richie had been so hurt, so angry, so _lost,_ that he’d given up hope completely. He’d learned that clinging to something desperate to escape was worse than letting it go altogether, and so he’d hopped into his truck and peeled away, leaving Derry behind, _finally,_ in a plume of exhaust.How he’d always wanted. It hadn’t felt as good as he dreamed it would.

There’d been a few floundering moments where he contemplated swinging down to New York, the way he and Eddie had planned more than a year prior, but his self-loathing told him not to bother. He’d been forgotten for a reason. If Eddie didn’t want to _talk_ to him, why would he want to physically _see_ him? 

By the time Richie got to Chicago, after weeks of traveling that should’ve only taken a day or two, thanks to indecision and bad luck and the desire to soak in everything he’d never known was out there, he no longer understood why crying himself to sleep five nights out of seven was such a common occurrence. He blamed his hair-trigger emotions on the easiest explanation possible: that there was simply something _wrong_ with him, innately and incurably. Because there’d _always_ been something wrong with him, hadn’t there? He’d mindlessly tossed Mike Hanlon’s hastily written phone number into a trash can with an empty bottle of coke and continued on with his life, never able to shake off the all-encompassing loneliness that followed him like like a shadow that never disappeared, no matter how many people he surrounded himself with.

Richie wants to resurrect It just to crush that disgustingly decrepit heart again, or stab through its soggy flesh a million more times with the leg he’d ripped clean off. He wants to get back all the time he’d lost. But maybe it’s best if none of these things happen. Maybe it’s best to accept things how they are and go on.

“I never felt like that again, _alive_ _,_ because I was _myself_ _._ Not until we sat down in that restaurant,” Eddie continues, trapping Richie in his molten gaze. “Feels even better now, though.”

“It does,” Stan agrees.

And maybe that’s what makes this all worth the heartache.

Eddie’s alive and Stan’s alive, and the Losers—older, wiser, somewhat worse for wear—are back together again, hopefully for good. It’s enough to make Richie, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, send a telepathic _thank you_ to whoever might be listening, turtle or otherwise.

He pats Eddie’s knee and wonders about what happened to that crummy cassette. Wonders if he’d be brave enough to hand it over now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the excessive dancing and song quoting, but I do what I must. <3
> 
> Thank you guys for the wonderful comments on the previous chapter. They truly are motivational and I always look forward to posting because of them. I know some of you are going crazy because of the slowburn, which is always fun, but I'll just say this: next update? *insert eye emoji here*
> 
> Anyway, I know this chapter is really a continuation of the previous one, but with added Loser happiness, reminiscing (imagining Eddie's last day made me sad, not gonna lie), and another admittance from Richie, so I hope you enjoyed! Let me know <3


	8. You and Me

The motel room isn’t _terrible_. It’s cluttered, dusty, and stuck in 1979, but Richie’s stayed in _many_ places one hundred percent worse than this one and he said as much when Eddie frowned so fretfully that there ended up being a moment of legitimate concern over his mouth getting stuck that way. But despite Eddie’s severe poopy-pants face he didn’t utter so much as one complaint, choosing to go about throwing his luggage at the end of the bed that happened to be furthest from the window (therefore, furthest from any potential draft) with a level of careless rebellion that Richie had to admire without any sarcastic quips or eye rolls.

It helped that they were both dead on their feet, flopping onto their respective mattresses with matching pained groans, shutting themselves off to everything outside of the rattling AC that shot stale air out through rickety vents. Eddie had gotten back up and shuffled over to the bathroom like a zombie after approximately ten minutes of stillness, leaving the door open a crack, the sound of the running faucet nearly lulling Richie to sleep. 

He’s jolted into full awareness by his own duffel bag slamming into his chest.

“Bitch,” he blurts reflexively, not quite sure if he’s talking to Eddie or the piece of luggage.

“Go brush your teeth. I left a couple floss picks out, not that I think you’re actually gonna use them, but the option’s there.”

“I’m pretty sure your obsession with oral hygiene could rival my dad’s, which is super creepy to think about.”

“Your dad was a _dentist,_ Richie.”

“My point exactly.” Richie bumps his shoulder against Eddie’s on the way to the bathroom, hauling his bag onto the counter so he can dig around for his toothbrush. “He _had_ to be obsessed because it was his _job_. What’s _your_ excuse? Oral fixation? Freud would have a field day with you, man.”

He raises a brow at Eddie through the mirror, only half surprised by the fact that he’d positioned himself in the doorway to stare judgmentally.

“My _excuse_ is that I don’t want my teeth to rot and fall out of my fucking head before I’m ninety, alright? And I’d rather not die in my sleep by inhaling the—the _toxins_ flowing out of your trash mouth when you snore, which you do. Like, a lot. It’s unhealthy. You probably have sleep apnea.”

“You’re just making shit up at this point.”

Richie’s mumble is followed immediately by him shoving the toothbrush into his mouth, the minty paste making his tastebuds tingle. Eddie doesn’t deny the accusation, though he does cross his arms and narrow his eyes, either because he’s scrutinizing Richie’s teeth brushing technique or because he’s thinking of a smartass comment to use as a retort. The likelihood of it being both of those things is huge.

“You’re wasting water,” is what he settles on, soft and not at all what Richie had been expecting. Eddie’s eyes, which glisten beneath the amber lights and captivate him through the mirror, stay glued to Richie in the reflection.

Knowing this, Richie not only keeps the tap on, but also opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, allowing globs of spit and toothpaste to dribble down his chin and drip into the sink in splotches he has no intention of cleaning. He can’t tell if Eddie’s gagging is real or fake.

“I’m gonna smother you tonight, fair warning.”

“Really?” He takes off his glasses, shoves them into Eddie’s hands due to lack of space on the countertop, and splashes his face with water so he can follow it with a bar of soap that will surely make his skin too dry. “Do you know how much strength it takes to smother someone? More than you have, that’s for damn sure.”

“Oh my god, you kill _one_ guy and suddenly you’re an expert on murder? No, fuck off. I could kill you _easily_.”

_“Wow._ ” Richie laughs into the threadbare motel he grabs to wipe at his face. “Should I be concerned by how passionate you are about murdering me?”

Eddie makes a little humming sound as he drops Richie’s glasses carefully back into his hands, moving then to gently push him out of the way to begin tidying up. Richie helps by taking his bag back out into the main room— _after_ he makes a show of grabbing a floss pick and sticking it into his mouth.

“I’m just saying, you’re either underestimating _my_ strength or overestimating yours, and both make you look like a jackass.”

“Hmm…” He noisily pops the minty string from between his teeth, smiling at the way Eddie cringes. “I seem to recall abso-fucking-lutely _owning_ you at arm wrestling, _bro._ No contest.”

“Alright! That was just for fun, but _alright_. Rematch.” Eddie steps through the doorway while he speaks, looking so fucking cute and a tiny bit threatening ( _hot hot hot_ ) when he stomps over, all firey and full of familiar rage, a certain spark brightening his eyes as he shoves pamphlets off the rectangular table bolted to the wall beneath the window. “Right here, right now!”

“You sure you don’t wanna wait until tomorrow?” Richie works at few more teeth before giving up and tossing the pick into the trash, wiping his fingers against his pants to get rid of some drool. “Or are you _that_ eager to get me out of my clothes?”

“What?” Eddie asks, turning to look at Richie in bewilderment, and he wishes he could slap himself—not only for the comment, for his apparent inability to play it off like he used to.

He wants to blame it on all the ooey-gooey feelings he’s been diving into recently, though he can’t, not really, because this level of recklessness has always been there. He supposes his younger self at least had the common sense to hide it behind jokes that weren’t so direct or obvious, but peeling back that level of protection by confronting his feelings (to Ben, to Bev, to himself) has made it easier and easier to slip up when he shouldn’t, when he’s not _ready_.

( _You are_ , the annoying voice in the back of his head whispers, the one often responsible for getting him into trouble. _You_ are _ready, you’re just being a pussy. Come on, do it already. You know you want to! Tell him now!_ )

Instead of backtracking like he knows he should—for self-preservation, if nothing else—he tries to roll with it under his usual ‘take nothing serious’ rule.

“ _Let’s take our shirts off and kiss?_ ” Eddie’s shoulders seize up around his ears as Richie mockingly repeats the proclamation that’s been haunting him since the Jade. It sounds nothing like Eddie, of course, but the tone itself is pretty damn accurate. “That was a big stroke to my ego, Eds, I gotta say!” With an exaggerated shimmy of his shoulders paired with some ridiculously wiggling brows, he adds: “Still waiting for the payoff, y’know.”

It’s supposed to be funny, silly, not at all serious even though Richie really, truly _is_ , but the fact that he’s even joking about such a thing—to Eddie directly, without the shield of his mother or wife or some other random thing—makes it _weird_ , there’s no two-ways about it. And maybe that’s why Eddie’s spluttering, why Richie can see splotches of red coloring his slightly sunkissed cheeks even in the room’s dim light, why he suddenly feels like he’s going to puke if he so much as parts his tightly sealed lips.

“Are you joking?” Eddie demands bluntly. Him asking means he isn’t sure, which is dangerous and also a little thrilling, the way horror movies are when a scare gets you jumping out of your seat and then laughing at yourself afterward. “Or is this like when you called Ben hot? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure you meant that.”

He’d always been like this, able to say what he meant whenever he felt like it, and Richie usually appreciated that trait because it was also one of his own. Except Eddie tended to be honest with his outbursts, while Richie usually fibbed or beat far enough around the bush that the quest for honesty became too much of a hassle to pursue.

“Listen, you agreed with me—”

“I know I did! I’m allowed to agree that one of my friends is objectively attractive, okay? I’m not saying—”

“And _duh_ _,_ I’m joking.” The words are sour in his mouth. “Jesus, Eddie.” His laugh is too loud. Too forced.

“What the fuck? Don’t ‘ _Jesus, Eddie_ _’_ me! You’re the one who brought it up!”

“And you’re the one who said it!”

“So? I was joking, too!” he shouts, pink and all puffed up. “I was just—it was a distraction tactic.”

Richie knows that, he _knows_ _,_ but the confirmation still fucking hurts. Stings like a slap in the face. He grins through the pain.

“Didn’t work, did it? I won fair and square, you little turd. Don’t be a sore loser.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, his shoulders dropping down to where they’re supposed to be, if a little more slumped. He folds his arms loosely across his stomach, gripping his elbows to keep them in place. Richie does the same.

“Okay, but would it have worked if Bev said it?” he asks, the corners of his mouth quirking into a wry smile. His eyes are sharp, though. Focused on Richie’s face like he’s searching for something in every line and wrinkle. “Or maybe Ben?”

There it is. The kicker. The culmination of suspicion he’d brought upon himself.

Richie feels like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice water right over his head. This is a test and he has all the answers, no studying required, because he _knows_ himself (now that he _remembers_ ) as thoroughly as he _hates_ himself. It’s the part where he has to _decide_ —on what he should say or do, on which version of himself he should be, on what cards he should reveal—that complicates matters. 

“I wouldn’t say no to a threesome,” are the words that first come to mind, as he stands on this precipice. Deflective but not yet dismissive. “Who would, right? I’m pretty sure even Stan would get in on that kind of action. But no, for me. To either.” A non-answer, now. A mystery to keep ‘em guessing. It feels like that’s all he has left. “Never really been into redheads, actually, and Brazillian soccer players are probably at the top of most Would Fuck lists, but nah, not exactly my type.”

Eddie’s brows dip even lower than their usually place of rest, a clear sign that Richie’s said something that annoys him, _con_ _fuses_ him. The clock is ticking, but Richie needs more time; to figure out how to phrase his confession, if he’s going to give one; to work up the perfect amount of courage to come clean. He can’t just blurt it out.

Can he?

“You’ve changed a lot, Rich,” Eddie says softly, gentle and fond and too fucking enigmatic for Richie to feel comfortable with. “You never would’ve said shit like that before. About Bev, yeah, but Ben? And the whole kissing thing—”

“Hey, _you_ started it—”

“I _know_. I’m just saying, the Richie I knew as a kid would’ve done a weird voice, pretended to be my mom or grandma or Greta Fucking Keene, _anyone_ else, before talking about stuff like that.”

_Before talking about boys in a way boys are supposed to talk about girls_ , a young voice in his mind explains, nervous and obnoxious and not at all helpful. He’s starting to understand why the others adopted the Beep Beep system so long ago.

“I could say the same to you,” Richie retorts, a little belated. He’s not sure what thread they’re following or where this conversation is going to end. “Baby Eds would’ve gagged if he knew he’d one day joke about kissing _me_.”

“I don’t know about that,” Eddie says _way_ too fucking mildly, like those flippant words aren’t turning Richie’s insides into a blender full of confusion and fear and _want_. He probably doesn’t know how he sounds, saying something like that. Probably hasn’t considered the way it could be construed by someone like Richie because he doesn’t really know who Richie _is_.

Eddie plops himself onto the edge of his bed with a sigh and stares up at Richie, eyes wide and inviting, but Richie can’t bring himself to join him. Staying where he’s at, he ruffles his messy hair, threading his fingers through the spot he’d been fairly concerned was thinning fast before his world got flipped upside down by one phone call. All his concerns from Before seem so insignificant now.

Well, almost all of them.

“Eddie, you stopped believing in fucking Santa Clause before you stopped believing that girls had _cooties_ ,” Richie tells him, which is true. Except… well, _girls_ is the keyword there. If Richie had cooties, Eddie seemed to think himself immune. That’s just how it’d always been. He feels like something is lodged in his throat when he swallows. “Anyway, what can I say? I’m confident enough in my masculinity to admit a dude is hot.”

“I guess that part’s new,” Eddie says with the slightest trace of a smirk. “I used to think your _masculinity_ was as fragile as my health.”

“Oh, so not fragile at all. Thank you very much.”

Eddie’s dimples, even the one obstructed by his scar, gets Richie close to swooning.

“Sure, if that’s how you want to see it. Doesn’t really matter, I’m just—I’m trying to catch up.” He shrugs. “And now seems like a good time to start, since we don’t exactly know what’ll happen once we scatter.”

Richie shifts on his feet and squints.

“You think we’ll forget again?”

“Not really, but what if we do?”

“I mean… it’s possible. I thought about it, yeah. But we haven’t so far, right? And Stan, he never even stepped foot in Derry, and he knew. He _knows_. He remembered once he woke up and he remembered before we got here, so I think we got a good shot at retaining our trauma like actual normal people this time around.”

“Yeah, but what about after, you know?” Richie shakes his head and Eddie sighs. A full thirty seconds pass before he continues, and what he says next makes Richie pause. “Why didn’t you ever come to New York? It’s all we ever talked about before I moved. We promised we’d always be friends and we made all these stupid plans that never would’ve worked, but you said you’d follow me after graduation and you didn’t.”

“I think you’re missing the part where we _forgot_ our entire fucking lives, man.”

“No,” he says hotly. “No. _I_ forgot, you didn’t, not right away. I left first, Richie. _You_ were supposed to follow _me_ , and you never did. I mean, it took at least a month for everything to get wiped, I think. It didn’t happen overnight. So you could’ve been knocking on my door before that. You would’ve remembered me and I think seeing you… maybe we never would’ve forgot. Not us, not if we were together. And I just keep thinking, why’d you stop calling? Why didn’t—why didn’t you ever…”

“Eddie, _what_ —” He starts, stopping to swallow, to take a shaky breath.

But the thing is, Eddie’s right. They hadn’t known _why_ Ben and Bev and Bill didn’t want anything to do with them once they’d settled elsewhere. They hadn’t known it’d been because of It, because of some curse on the town and themselves. They’d just known it sucked to get left behind and that things were going to be _different_ for them, they’d make sure of that, and Richie supposes… he supposes that when Eddie stopped calling, all his insecurities took over and his fear of abandonment reared its ugly head. And there’d been no way to know that Eddie would have been so relieved to see him standing outside his front door, that hearing his voice would’ve coaxed all the fading memories back to the forefront, that they could’ve had decades together if Richie had fulfilled his side of the promise. It’s not as if he can claim all that with certainty, even now. He doesn’t know what might have happened after he got to New York, if Eddie would have followed him to Chicago or if they would’ve fallen back on their promise and ended up exactly where they’d been before Mike’s call, regardless. But the _possibility_ _…_

_If only, if only, if only._ The mantra of Richie’s sad existence.

“What do you want me to say, Eddie?” he wonders desperately. “ _You_ stopped calling, and I know why _now_ , but back then… I dunno, it was Bev and Bill and Ben all over again, so I figured you outgrew me. And then I lost your number and I knew I could’ve asked Mike for it, I should’ve, but— _God_ , Eddie, you stopped calling and I thought that was it, you know? I thought you wanted me to take a hint and fuck off, so I did.” _Do not fucking cry right now_ , he hisses to himself when he feels that telltale pricking in his eyes and nostrils, at the back of his throat. “When it was finally my turn to get out of there… it’s not like I didn’t think about going to New York, Eddie. I fucking agonized over it for days, but every scenario was just you slamming the door in my face because you had a new life with new friends, and why the hell would you want some Trashmouth clinging to your ankles? I was saving you the trouble. And I was… I was saving myself the pain. And then I got to Chicago and—” His vision swims with tears he refuses to let fall as he’s briefly smothered in the hopeless, helpless feelings of his past. “And I couldn’t fucking _remember_ why I was so sad all the time. I couldn’t remember what I’d lost, but I knew it must’ve been something big, to make me feel like that.”

“Richie…”

It’s his mind playing tricks on him, that has to be it, because for a second he swears he can hear that punchy, high-pitched voice of thirteen year old Eddie buried somewhere deep in that one gutted utterance of his name.

“ _Don’t_. I mean it. If you start crying right now I’m gonna fucking _lose_ it, Eddie, I’m not joking.”

“Dude, you think I care? _Richie_. C’mere.”

He does what he’s told because there isn’t another option, not with Eddie in command, and sits himself on the bed, feeling like he weighs a thousand pounds as the mattress dips low under their combined weight. He keeps his knees pointed forward because looking at Eddie when he’s so damn concerned will only make things worse.

Not that it matters, really. He hears one little sniffle and the tears start dripping without restraint, his wet lashes created speckles across his lenses every time he blinks.

“Is it my fault?” he asks, broken and begging, unable to shake this sudden burdensome guilt. _Is it my fault I’m like this? Is it my fault I’m so alone? Is it my fault I can’t do anything right?_ _Is it my fault we only kept our promise in theory, not in practice?_ _Is it my fault I fell for you and can’t find a way back onto my feet_ _, that I don’t even want to try_ _?_ “Is it my fault? If I’d shown up, things could’ve been different, that’s—shit, that’s probably true. Maybe not for long, but I—we could’ve had more time. And if it was the other way around… _Fuck,_ Eddie, you would’ve been brave enough to knock on _my_ door. You’d’ve been fuming, calling me every name in the book for leaving you hanging like that, but you’d still be there. You wouldn’t’ve driven in the opposite direction feeling fucking _sorry_ for yourself.”

“Hey, don’t do that.” Eddie’s hand presses heavily onto Richie’s shoulder, the one farthest away, using his firm grip to tug him closer, into his side. Richie is too big to fit there comfortably, but it still feels nice to be held. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad, okay? Honest. Everything’s a mess and I want to understand, and I just keep wondering if this was how things were meant to be or if… if we—but it doesn’t matter, Richie. It’s _not_ your fault. None of it is or was.”

“But you know I’m right.” A sound that’s too close to a sob escapes him, so he covers his eyes with his hands, fingers sliding up beneath his glasses to block them from view. “I was a fucking pussy. You were always the brave one, I told you that.”

“And you were always sensitive. You never wanted anyone to know that, but I’d see it sometimes, when we were alone, and it was one of my favorite things. Can you believe that? You being you and me being me.” He grabs Richie’s wrists and tries to gently pry his hands away from his face, whispering _hey, hey_ _, don’t_ when Richie claws at his skin in an attempt to hang on. “You’re always hiding, Richie. Behind stupid voices and shitty jokes. You’re an asshole if someone gets too close, like you can’t stand having anyone _see_ you for two fucking seconds even though you don’t shut up until someone at _least_ looks your way. But you always had to hide behind something and I get it, s’not like I never did the same, but _Richie_ , Rich, things are different now. So Im begging you—literally, right now—to _stop_. Don’t do that.”

“You can’t say fucking shit to me, man,” he croaks, managing to turn his head away once Eddie forces his arms down. He’s unfortunately starting to think the little fucker wasn’t trying as hard as he could have during that arm wrestling match. “Your last big confession was about fucking my mom, so—”

“I was fucking _dying_ , dude, cut me some slack. And I just wanted—I wanted— _fuck_ , Richie, would you _look_ at me?” Richie’s resistance doesn’t last long when he feels fingers curl around his scruffy chin, adding just enough force to turn his head so they’re face-to-face, both of them teary-eyed and wobbly-lipped. “I meant what I said before, about our promise. We _never_ stopped being friends. And you said it yourself, you couldn’t remember but you _knew_ something was missing. I knew it, too. I wasn’t me without you, Rich, so it’s not your fault. It’s that _fucking_ clown. Fucking Pennywise, that piece of shit. He stole so much from us. Everything! It’s like… I never would’ve met Myra, if I had you guys. Bev never would’ve married that _asshat_ , what’s-his-face. She and Ben, they’d have gotten together way sooner, been fucking happy this entire time. And Stan and Bill, they’d probably always end up where they are now, but maybe it’d be different, like they’d have kids or something, or Bill wouldn’t be so shit at endings ‘cause he’d have closure and Stan would always know how to be strong and we’d help him if he couldn’t. Mike… he’d have left Derry like the rest of us and had a real life, a good one. And just—things could’ve been _different_ for us and it pisses me off that we got screwed over because of some fucking scifi reject! We didn’t deserve that.”

“No, we didn’t,” Richie solemnly agrees. He breathes through his stuffy nose, shutting. He shuts his eyes and leans away to use a tissue Eddie produces from… somewhere. “Hey, hey, what about me? Are things just consistently shit in my life even in a hypothetical universe? Am I a perpetual bachelor in your little fantasy?”

Eddie shrugs.

“We both are, I guess,” he says, a tad morose.

Oh. Well.

_Huh_.

Richie fiddles with his glasses so he doesn’t feel tempted to look at Eddie’s face. That damned cracked lens is starting to bother him, the more he looks it over. Some of the edges still seem red.

“That’s fucked up. Like, I get it, on my side. It’d take a specific type of crazy to handle all this, but come on, man. At least give _yourself_ a hot piece of ass.” Nevermind that he’s _married_ , in this very real reality. Richie would like to forget about _that._ “Your dreams are super boring.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Eddie huffs on instinct. Then, a little louder: “Richie, I don’t need anyone else if you’re with me. That’s what I—uh.”

_Holy shit_.

They’re plunged into stunned silence, blinking at one another like they can’t comprehend what they’re seeing or what’s just been said, what’s just been heard. Normally Richie wouldn’t think much of it, he’d write it off as an emotional moment between traumatized friends and jump onto the next thing, but Eddie’s looking at Richie like he _shouldn’t_ write it off, like there _is_ something to think about. There’s no mistaking the terror in his eyes, as well; in the big, round shape of them, and yet the tears have dried and his hands are completely free of tremors, unlike Richie’s. His start shaking so bad he has to clench them around the bedspread to stop.

“Okay, so—”

“I just meant—”

“I, um.” He hates how his voice cracks, the same way it used to when he was stuck in puberty hell. “Thank… you?”

“You’re welcome,” Eddie grumbles, the clipped tone not doing much to hid his sincerity even as he darts his gaze down and to the side.

“Eddie.” Richie can barely breathe. “Eddie, do you want me to be serious right now or should I say something stupid to—”

“Be serious,” he blurts before Richie can finish laying out the second option. “Please.”

He nods for several seconds too long, each up and down motion sharp and jerky, and slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“I don’t need anyone else, either. If it’s you and me.” A shiver wracks through his body at the sound of his voice saying such a thing straight to Eddie’s face. Eddie said it first so there’s a bit of a safety net stretched out below him, but he feels them as deeply as he feels anything for Eddie. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You mean... a lot to me, man. Pretty sure you knew that already.”

“I might’ve gotten that, yeah,” Eddie says, mouth quirking coyly at one deep corner. “But I like hearing you say it.” 

That does something to Richie’s on a level he can’t really grasp; makes him feel awkward and out of sorts, but giddy and mushy too.

“What, your mommy-wife doesn’t get all soft and sweet with you?”

“I take it back. You haven’t changed at all, Trashmouth.” Richie’s warm cheeks stretch into a gentle grin at the way his longstanding nickname drips so easily off Eddie’s tongue. But then Eddie shakes his head as trouble clouds his features. “I hate that I don’t know for sure. You were barely sixteen last time I saw you, so that’s the only comparison I have, and you’re the same in a lot of ways but you’re really something else now, too. And I don’t know how much of that is just, you know, growing up, and how much of it’s because of external factors or—or internal struggles. I don’t know and I _hate_ that. ‘Cause I should know. As your best friend, I _should_. And I wanna pick up where we left off because I _know_ you, even though you seem to think I don’t, but I also know there’s a lot to learn. About who we are now. It’s been so fucking long and I never thought of myself as old until I went back to Derry, but I just keep thinking… how much time do we have left? Because I died—” Richie’s heart aches at the reminder. “I _died_ , Richie, and that could’ve been _it_ , but I have this second chance and I wanna get things right and stop wasting my fucking life, ‘cause that’s what I’ve been doing and I see that. I saw it before, but here it’s like right in my face, I can’t look anywhere without it punching me in the gut, and I need to change, um, pretty much _everything_ as soon as possible? But it’s like… _how,_ Richie? How am I supposed to get caught up with you and everyone and get caught up with myself, and push through all this _shit_ just to get an end result I never even let myself _think_ of wanting until I saw all of you again?”

“Eddie.”

“It seems impossible. I’m trying to start small, I’m trying to _connect_ with you, like those fucking self-help books Myra has back in Manhattan all say, but then you’re just—”

“ _Eddie_.”

“—frustratingly distant and deflective, and then you’re not, and then you are. It’s like you have this switch that I can flip sometimes and everything works, all the lights come on and they’re bright and warm, and then other times I have to keep flicking it on and off and on and off until, like, one bulb fucking works, and it flickers and it’s dim and then you go and smash it because you’re an asshole who won’t just—”

“Eddie!”

“—talk to me— _what?!_ What, Richie?”

“Take a fucking breath, would you? You’re making me dizzy.”

Eddie glares, like he wants to argue, but then he inhales deeply and Richie watches his chest expand and deflate with air and _life_ , and he reaches out to press his hand against soft cotton, over where he knows that fateful scar lies. He can see it perfectly behind his lids when he closes his eyes. When he slides his fingertips down, he can feel a rough outline.

“Okay, so, I might be wrong—feel free to tell me if I am, you always do—but it sounds like you need some advice. Mine, specifically.”

“Possibly.” Eddie’s lip curls as he tilts his head, ever the puppy-dog with those big eyes looking bright in the cheap motel lights, and grunts. “I’m desperate, so probably. Go on.”

“Right. Well, let me ask you something. Out of everything you want to change about your life, what’s the first thing that pops into your head? Right this second, without thinking about it. The first thing.”

Eddie blinks.

“Uh, I’d change the fact that I feel disconnected from everyone.”

The answer is obvious and yet it surprises Richie all the same.

“Hey, that one’s easy. You can start with mingling during our little field trip tomorrow. Lay on the ol’ Kaspbrak charm, say some sappy shit about how much you missed us, then start asking the _really_ invasive questions. Like… has Bill ever joined the Mile High Club, or what’s the most embarrassing thing Drunk Bev’s ever been recorded doing, or what’s Ben’s preference between boxers and briefs?”

“I’m not asking him that,” Eddie snorts. “ _You_ ask him that. You’re the one who wants to know.”

“It’s a legitimate thing to wonder!”

“If I ask _you_ an invasive question, will you actually answer it?”

“Sure. I’m a boxers man, myself.”

“Richie.”

His voice is reedy, which doesn’t seem like a good sign. Also, Richie really needs to stop thinking about underwear, lest his brain begin vividly picturing Eddie in nothing but tiny little briefs.

“Fine. I _will_ answer your questions because I’m nothing if not a people-pleaser. But first, what’s next on Eddie Kaspbrak’s list of life changing events?”

“Uh… I’m—I’m gonna get a divorce. I think.”

“You…” Richie’s mouth is as dry as a fucking desert. His mind blanks and then statics. “You _think?_ ”

Eddie’s back straightens and his shoulders broaden. He looks Richie dead in the eye, takes a breath, and says:

“I’m going to divorce Myra. I haven’t told her yet, or my attorney, or—well, I might have mentioned it to Bev, but you’re the first one I’m… you’re the first one I’m saying this to and meaning it.” Richie jolts when Eddie gasps, hand flying up to his chest to clutch at it like he’s having a heart attack. “ _Holy fuck,_ I’m getting a divorce!”

Eddie pats himself down violently, searching for the one thing he’s always relied on, the one thing he’s never needed. His pajamas don’t have pockets and he’s not wearing a fanny pack and he doesn’t have a spare tucked away somewhere in his luggage, Richie’s pretty certain of that. Even if he did, Richie wouldn’t let him use it. He takes Eddie’s hands into his own in a gesture that’s starting to become a dangerously addictive habit, holds them tight when they threaten to jerk away.

“Eds, you’re fine. I’m right here. You’re good. Take it easy.”

“I’m—I’m—”

“You’re _fine_. And you’re getting a divorce and that’s fine, too. It’s fucking _great_ _,_ man!”

“Is it?”

He hasn’t stopped gasping, but he’s squeezing Richie’s hands like a fucking vice, so things are moving in the right direction. Still, Richie flushes. It’s not like Eddie’s going to fall into his arms just because he’s ready to break out of his marriage, so he doesn’t want to seem _too_ eager. Eddie might very well be miserable about this decision, he doesn’t know.

“You tell me,” Richie shoots back. His palms are surely sweaty but Eddie doesn’t let go. Just _smiles_ and holds on. Richie feels like he’s sinking slowly and helplessly into a pit of quicksand.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is, it’s _great_ _!_ Fuck, yeah, I—I’ll be able to do whatever the hell I want without checking in! I can drive when it snows and I can stuff my face with way too much sugar and sodium, and I won’t have to sit in my own house and force myself to smell those disgusting fucking rosemary candles Myra insists helps with my tension. If anything they make me feel _worse_ _._ Like I wanna jump out the fucking _window_ _,_ they stink that bad!”

“Okay, yeah, _hell_ yeah! I mean, it’s really sad you live that way, not gonna lie, but the first step in solving a problem is to admit you have one or whatever, so there you go!” High-fiving Eddie over his decision to end his marriage might be slightly inappropriate, so he pats him on the back instead, giving himself a moment to enjoy the way Eddie’s warmth feels beneath his palm. “You know that’s what you want, then what comes after? You gonna quit your boring job, move to Hawaii? Become a real _Rebel Without A Cause?_ I know you’re never actually gonna get a tattoo, but maybe we can get you drunk off your ass and make you dance to _Baby Got Back_.”

“Oh, fuck you! That’s never happening. But I _will_ get a tattoo, I totally will, you don’t know _shit!_ And you said you would if I did, and I’m gonna, so get fucking ready, bud!”

“I’m always ready, Eds. My ass is prime real-estate.”

“You’re not getting our tattoo on your ass!”

_Our_ tattoo. Be still his beating heart.

“Hey, you can’t tell me what to do! If I want your name inked on my ass then I’m gonna get it, you can’t stop me.”

“Richie, I’ll fucking—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cool your jets. But seriously, what’s the problem? You want to reconnect with everyone, file for divorce, get a tattoo, apparently. Sounds like a pretty good plan to me. Way better than what I was gonna do.”

“Oh. Well, what were _you_ gonna do?”

“I—” Richie stalls immediately after he starts, words failing him entirely as Eddie’s hand curls around the loose fist he’s got resting on top of his thigh. Eddie’s thumb brushes sweetly, absently, over each bumpy knuckle, making his skin tingle delightfully. Richie clears his throat and focuses. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it that much. I guess I was just gonna go back to Chicago, make sure I don’t drink myself into oblivion, maybe try to spin all this bullshit into something that’ll be able to save my career. Just another day in the life of Richie Tozier, overall.”

“We can help each other,” Eddie offers, occupying himself by playing with Richie’s fingers. He has no clue how close Richie is to keeling over. “Bev’s already started the… the process, but me and her, we’re on the same page. She can talk me through it when I get too crazy. And Ben’s gonna be there for her, without a doubt, and I know he’ll try to help me too, but…”

Richie gets it. Ben would help everyone, if had the time and means, but his focus will be on Bev, as it should be, and Eddie doesn’t want to be a third wheel.

There’s nothing that says Bill or Mike or Stan couldn’t help, just because they’ve never personally been through the same situation, but Eddie doesn’t seem to want that. Neither does Richie.

“If you need someone to have your back,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “you can always count on me. Whatever you want, all you gotta do is call and I’ll be there, alright? I need you to know that, Eddie.”

The expression that takes over Eddie’s face is nearly identical to the one he’d worn in the cistern, when Richie had told him he was brave.

“I do know,” he says slowly, clearly wanting Richie to understand that he means it. “I do. And same to you, okay? Whatever you need, I’m here. You know that.”

“Sure, I know,” Richie replies with a shrug, averting his gaze before Eddie can see just how gone on him he is. How did he ever used to hide it, feeling like this? Or, more importantly, why is he so bad at it now? “You’ll be the first to get all my post-Derry depression texts, I promise. But I think you’re right. You and Bev are on this whole ‘turn my life around’ journey, Stan and Bill can bond over having hot wives, Mike’s gonna take off and do whatever the hell he wants for a change, and Ben, well, I don’t actually know what he’s gonna do besides get laid a whole bunch and cry about finally having everything he’s ever dreamed of. And then there’s me. I’m gonna bug you about the stupidest shit, man. Just because I _can_. I’ll go grocery shopping at 3am and make you listen to me bitch about how I can’t decide between Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Trix, and you won’t be allowed to hang up on me because you promised you’d help.”

Eddie lets his head drop backwards, nose pointed to the ceiling. He sighs long-sufferingly, though all Richie can pay attention to is the way his adam’s apple juts and bobs when he swallows.

“I’m not even surprised you like Trix, you fucking weirdo. It’s a _slightly_ better version of Froot Loops, I’ll give you that, but if you think there’s actually a choice to be made between real cinnamon and artificial fruit flavoring, you’re worse off than I thought.”

“Don’t be elitist about cereal, Eddie. I bet you eat Raisin Bran and like it.”

“I eat Fiber One, actually, and I _don’t_ like it but I like not being able to shit even less. And, anyway, you’re doing it again. We were having a moment and then you veered off and now we’re talking about cereal and constipation.”

“ _You_ were talking about constipation. I was just letting you know how indecisive I am about breakfast foods.”

Richie droops a little when Eddie’s mouth thins out, calling bull without having to say anything at all. Richie pulls his hands away, which he absolutely hates to do but must now that his heart is starting to beat in a noticeably uneven pattern.

“Were we having a moment?” he asks (squeaks, more like), barely above a whisper, because suddenly it seems really damn prudent to know. “It’s hard for me to tell these days.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, and it’s so simple and so _good_ and Richie hates how much he loves the way Eddie can manipulate the sound of his two syllable name like that. “Rich, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to be honest but I also want you to stay calm, okay?”

“Oh, Jesus _fuck,”_ Richie hisses, turning further away. “You sound like a therapist right now and that’s really throwing up some red flags, dude. And fuck you for telling me to stay calm because now I’m gonna be anything _but_ calm, and you knew that and you did it on purpose!”

Eddie doesn’t even deny the accusation. He crosses his arms, sits still as a statue, not willing to give an inch. The usual fear is starting to choke Richie and even after all the progress he’s made he doesn’t think he can stand to hear whatever question Eddie is so determined to ask.

“Eddie,” he tries with as much measure as he can muster, “I struggle with a lot of things personally—surprise, surprise—but it’s really fucking hard to be myself when I’ve spent half my life wanting to change all the little parts of who I knew I was but not having a fucking _clue_ about what I’d want to turn them into if I actually could. And I know you keep talking about how you want things to be like before, when it was all seven of us against the world, without secrets, without anything coming between us, but the truth is… this _is_ how it’s always been. I’m just really fucking bad at hiding shit these days. And I know you know that because you keep trying to wheedle shit out of me, but I’m asking you, as my friend, to not do this right now. You made me cry a little while ago—this whole week, actually, like a whiny fucking bitch—so I think you owe me here.”

“Richie.” Eddie somehow manages to pack a whole sentence worth of exasperation in that one breath. “All I wanna know is why you asked if I was married to a woman.”

_Uh oh_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know I said last time that this chapter would be worthy of the Eye Emoji, but I decided to cut it in half, hence the chapter count jumping up one again, to 13. This is probably the most filler chapter so far, since it was originally paired with a lot more, which is also why it's on the shorter side, and I know this is yet again more build-up but hopefully it's still good and enjoyable! 
> 
> Seems like Eddie's getting down to the nitty-gritty now, huh? ;) Richie's like: *chuckles* I'm in danger.
> 
> On a personal note: the reason I split this chapter is because I've been dealing with what I'm assuming to be some kind of rash on my neck, around the throat, and the top of my chest for like a week now. It got pretty bad since it itched so unbearably I couldn't help but scratch constantly. I don't get out of the house much and I really shouldn't/can't right now, considering everything that's going on, so I'm trying to get rid of it with some calamine lotion and allergy pills. It's definitely helping with the itch, making it more manageable, so hopefully it'll heal up. It might've been caused by a face cleanser I started using this month; I'm not sure, but I stopped using it anyway. Also, I got a new laptop and I'm still getting used to it (the resolution is a lot bigger, so everything is smaller and even though my glasses help with my poor eyesight it's still quite a bit different than my previous laptop. I know I can change the resolution, but it just messes with so many programs so I'm just going to try and get used to this. The mouse is an issue too, since there aren't actual buttons beneath the trackpad, and I keep dragging my finger across it when I'm trying to click. I just have to learn. But my internet is super slow. It's taking a while tomovestuff off my other computer onto this one. At least my docs were a quick transfer.
> 
> Anyway, I'm going to get right on editing what'll be the next chapter, which I /promise/ is one to look forward to! (｡◕‿◕｡) Thanks for sticking around! And thanks for all the wonderful comments, too. Seriously. They mean so much to me. I read them over again as I went to reply and they really just got me back in the mood to sit down and edit. I love these characters and writing for them and it's just super nice, knowing who is reading my fic and enjoying it, and I seriously appreciate the feedback.


	9. Only The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [michael scott voice: oh my god! okay, it's happening!]

“……uh, what?”

Eddie, with more patience than he possibly ever had, looks at Richie, _really_ looks at him—like, eyes roaming his entire face, neck, and chest kind of deal—and parts his lips to repeat his inquiry.

“When you found out I was married, why’d you ask if it was to a woman?”

“It was a joke, Eddie,” Richie replies, fast and airy and a major fucking lie. “Like what I said about your mom.”

“Or,” Eddie says, pushing Richie right up against a ledge, “it _wasn’t_ a joke. Like what you said about Ben.”

“Okay, you seem really hung up on me calling Ben hot, even though you agreed with me, so either you’re being weird about it or you’re jealous. Or you think I have, like, _feelings_ for him or something.” He can’t imagine the ugly sneer his face has taken on, though he sure as hell can feel it. “Which— _gross._ ”

“Wait, why’s that gross?”

The fact that Eddie asks seems promising, especially with how disgruntled he looks by the implication. These are dangerous waters to be navigating, even by someone as good at swimming as Richie is. This is the sort of deep end he’s never really taken into account.

“Because he likes poetry! And because he’s so far up Bev’s vagina that—”

“Stop, stop, stop! Do _not_ fucking finish that sentence!” Richie almost smiles at the familiarity of that statement. “I’m _not_ jealous,” he huffs, though his tone suggests that he absolutely is, in some capacity, which is _wild_ to Richie. On so many levels. “I just meant that… you didn’t seem like you were joking, when you asked. Like, you tried to make it sound that way, but I could see it on your face. You looked—you looked—”

“Like an idiot?”

“You just looked… upset? I don’t really know how to describe what your face was doing, because it was really fucking confusing. But I could tell it wasn’t actually a joke and I guess that’s why I got so defensive. I wanna know why it was so fucking shocking for you to find out I had a wife.”

“It’s not like I couldn’t imagine you being married.” It leaves him frantically, before his brain can decide what his answer to this question should be. Eddie’s looking for the truth and Richie owes it to him, at least partially, since the little shit’s been doing everything in his power to reconnect without being overly unbearable. Richie has wasted so much time, took Eddie for granted even as he basked in his attention, but he has to do better now. He has to _be_ better. “You being a husband is the most Eddie thing in the world to me. You were always taking care of us, even when you were being a huge shithead about it, and you just—you’re abso _lutely_ husband material, Eddie.”

The words are a chore to speak, simply because they aren’t as dry-cut as they seem. Richie would do _anything_ to be Eddie’s husband (Richie Tozier-Kaspbrak always had a good ring to it, he thinks), despite all his old and current reservations, but saying shit like that out loud? It’s really stinkin’ _hard_. 

His scalp is on _fire,_ as hot as his cheeks and neck and ears. Is that normal? Probably not. 

“Okay,” Eddie breathes. One corner of his mouth is ticked up, just a little. Richie’s not imagining it. “Thanks, but you know that’s not what I asked.”

“I can’t remember what you asked, if I’m being honest. And that’s what you want, right? Honesty? I don’t know why you’d want that from me, of all people, but if you’re into some hard truths I’d be happy to tell you how much you dress like the fucking _Forty Year Old Virgin_ —” He’s babbling and he needs to stop, get ahold of himself if at all possible, ‘cause he knows where this is headed if he doesn’t, where he’s about to let it go, and if it _does_ …

He has no energy left to stop it, has no energy left to keep hiding when there isn’t any reason to be scared. Not anymore.

“Richie.” Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, using the other to slice through the air matter-of-factly. “I’m asking if you thought I was _gay,_ you dipshit.”

Richie doesn’t miss the way his voice cracks on that one syllable.

His hands begin to shake, despite his best efforts to remain calm.

“I wasn’t, like—I mean, no? I _asked_ if you married a woman, didn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t have asked if that’s what you already thought, Rich.”

“Well!” He’s practically shouting. Eddie doesn’t flinch. With teh way his jaw is clenched and jutted, he looks on the verge of shouting too. “It’s just sort of came out, okay?” _Unlike me. Ha!_ “I didn’t _assume_ you were gay or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Don’t get your panties in a twist—”

“Don’t ever say the word _panties_ again—”

“I can’t explain it, Eddie. I’ll sound like a jackass if I try.”

“You _always_ sound like a jackass.” Classic Eddie. “But I like you anyway.” _Not_ so classic Eddie.

What. The. Fuck.

“People are pretty much straight by default, right?” That’s how Richie thinks, anyway, regardless of the who or where or when, mostly because he’s a coward who never wants to make the first move, so not getting his hopes up at all, until explicitly approached, is a good way to keep sane. But Eddie’s always had a way of twisting Richie all around, turning him backwards and upside down and then rightside up once more. That sort of dizziness is terribly intoxicating. “Which is kinda shitty but also not the point, so I figured… if you’re married then it’s probably to a woman, but at the same time—” Eddie’s brows draw inward at that. Richie coughs awkwardly. “At the _same time,_ part of me sort of… expected something else? Again, I wasn’t _assuming_ , but what the fuck, I don’t know, I just had a weird feeling. And I _was_ trying to make a gay joke, no matter what the hell you think my stupid face was doing, it’s just—I was probably projecting a little bit, alright, which isn’t—”

“ _Projecting?_ ” Eddie squawks, completely undignified. Richie can’t even make fun of him because he’s too busy sweating bullets and trying to bite through his bottom lip. “Projecting, like—you mean…?”

“Yeah,” he croaks, more of a sound than an actual syllable.

And it’s not a surprise but _fuck_ Eddie for managing to trick Richie into spilling the beans. He’d always been good at getting what he wanted, that little asshole. Richie couldn’t and can’t relate.

This hadn’t been how he wanted to say it, all things considered. Although, let’s face it, he’d spent so long thinking he’d never say it at _all_ that there’d never really been a _plan_. His confessions to Ben and Bev were proof of that; were just as spontaneous as whatever the hell _this_ is. But it’s _fine_. Just another step. Like kicking a giant log into place between two stones in the middle of a fast-rushing river. It’d be there for him to use later, to take that final step across, until he’s dropping down into territory he knows he’ll never be able to back out of.

This is only the beginning.

“I like dicks.” And, okay, that _definitely_ hadn’t been how he wanted to say _this_ part. “Uh, cock, I mean. Like—not other Richards. There’re probably some hot ones out there, to be fair. It’s just really hard to like anyone with my name when I don’t even like _myself._ Not that I’ve ever actually met another Richard, in person, which is weird ‘cause it’s a common name. Or was. Oh, but like, dicks. As in the physical—” The gesture he does toward his lap doesn’t help the situation, not when Eddie’s eyes, big and round and dark, look _down_ when he does so. For the first time ever, Richie is thankful to be too nervous to get an erection. “I’ve met… not a lot of _those_ , but some. And, uh, I like it. In the moment. I still like it _after_ , obviously, but I also always kinda wanna throw up by then since I’m not _supposed_ to like it? These days it’s mostly because people don’t know and I have an image to maintain, which is pretty baffling but actually true. You’ve seen my shit, you know what I mean. But I can’t say that’s it’s not also just… just me being—”

“Scared.”

Richie’s gaze, which had been darting all around the room, slides over to Eddie and stays there. He’s struck hard then. Not by how bewildered Eddie seems, but by how _understanding_ helooks. Richie forgets sometimes, even now, just how much fear _all_ the Losers have felt, have known, and still do. How much they’ve all had to overcome.

“Yeah. Scared. I was always so fucking _scared_ about people finding out, about them knowing. It always felt like... if I was being myself for too long, without all the pretense, and someone looked at me in that exact moment, they’d be able to see it. Like Bowers and his Bosom Buddies, you know?”

“Richie, Bowers thought half the kids at school were either flamers or sluts. Don’t give that ugly asshole credit for shit.”

“But he was right. About me.” Richie pulls his glasses off to wipe at the lenses furiously, smudging them worse than they already were. He has to do it two more times, his hands are shaking so bad, and he blinks back tears when he slips them on and Eddie’s waiting face becomes clear again. “And he _knew_ he was right. It wasn’t like when he called _you_ guys faggots. You were small and asthmatic, and Bill had a stutter and a dead brother, and Stan was a Jew and so fucking anal retentive—and no, I’m not making a gay joke about _that_. And we were all close, we did everything together, even before Ben and Bev and Mike joined in, and it was an easy thing to say, but it didn’t _mean_ anything because it wasn’t _true._ For me? Eddie, it was always true.”

“This has something to do with that arcade token, doesn’t it?” he asks, quiet but firm.

Richie appreciates the forwardness. Eddie isn’t being condescending or invasive and he isn’t treating him with kid gloves. Richie doesn’t really want to get back into all the traumatizing shit he’d already had to relive recently, but he thinks it’s important for him to admit this to Eddie. On his own terms.

“You know none of us were talking during that time,” he reminds, silently psyching himself up. “I was alone. Really, really alone. Bill fucking punched me, Beverly took his side, Mike and Ben fucked off. Your mom wouldn’t let me see you. I had Stan, a little bit, but he was so freaked out and I didn’t wanna deal with all that, on top of everything else. And he never wanted to play games, which was all _I_ wanted to do because it was the only thing that felt normal with a fucking murder clown hanging around, so we’d talk for a while and then we’d go our separate ways.

“I went to The Capitol one day. And it was like every other time, except this boy was there. And he was—I mean, I didn’t know him, I’d never seen him before, but I thought he was—I thought he was... cute.” He closes his eyes and tries to breathe steadily through his nose. “We played for awhile. Street Fighter. I kept whooping his ass and he didn’t even get mad, just said I was good, and he didn’t get mad when I started staring too long either, and… he was going to leave, but I didn’t, _couldn’t_ , be alone again, so I asked him to play another round and I was so fucking nervous. His hand touched mine for like five seconds and I thought I was gonna die, man. I didn’t like _him_ , specifically, but I…. I mean, it wasn’t just me playing a game with a friend. It was more. Not like he was the first guy I’d ever thought that about or anything, but up until then I’d tried to ignore it.” He forces himself to open his eyes and lift his head so he can take a peek at Eddie, though a lot of good that does. His expression is too complicated to read. “Mostly I could, like a fucking pro, but then sometimes—” He catches himself before the _you_ slips out. This can’t be about that yet. “Sometimes it was harder to control. But that guy made me feel weird, in a good way, and then… in a not-so-good way. ‘Cause of course Henry Bowers had to walk in, when I was standing there like a fool, waiting for that kid to say he’d stay and play some more, and hoping maybe I could touch his hand again without being fucking _weird_. And of fucking _course_ that kid had to end up being Henry’s fucking cousin.” Eddie shifts then, looking pained at the admission. Sympathetic. Richie swallows roughly. “And I guess I was being obvious, and I guess maybe he panicked, and it’s like everything changed in a second. And he told me, loud enough for the whole lobby to hear, that he wasn’t my fucking _boyfriend_. Turned around and asked Henry why he didn’t tell him there were so many little _fairies_ in town. He said something about me trying to bone his cousin or whatever, and I couldn’t say anything back. I was so…” Richie refuses to cry about it again. He won’t let it have power over him any longer. “He called me a faggot. Screamed it in my face for everyone to know. Told me to get the fuck out. And nobody did anything, except stare and whisper, and the only thing _I_ could do was run. So that’s what I did, I ran away. That’s all I ever did. It’s all I ever do.”

“Not this time,” Eddie tells him. His hands jerk forward, freeze in midair, then start to move again in a slower motion. Richie watches in amazement, the way Eddie’s thin fingers slot perfectly between his own. His brain can hardly register the way it feels to be holding hands with the man he’s forever loved. “You don’t have to run anymore, Richie. And if you try I’ll be right behind you. I’ll follow you anywhere. I would’ve back then, too. If I’d… if I’d _known_ _._ ”

Richie isn’t so sure about that, not when Sonia Kaspbrak was around, but he smiles sadly at the idea of things ever being so simple, at the idea that Eddie would have _wanted_ to be there for him.

“I ended up at the park. That’s when It showed up for me, the first time. Alone. I’d seen him when that weird projector shit happened and again at Neibolt, but in the park, after the arcade, that was the first time it was just for me. And he _knew_. Pennywise fucking knew _everything_. He took over that creepy ass Paul Bunyan statue and tried to kill me with it. Offered to give me a kiss first, though. Real charmer.”

“Fucking hell. _Richie_ —”

He shakes his head, so Eddie bites his tongue.

“He showed up after I got my token, too. Said he knew my dirty little secret, said he’d tell everyone. And that was what the problem was, really. Even back then. Sure, I didn’t _want_ to be… gay, or whatever. I didn’t _want_ to be who I was, or what I was, the idea that people would know? That freaked me out bad.t Thinking about how you guys would look at me if you knew, what you’d say behind my back, to my _face._ There was already graffiti in the bathrooms about me—about all of us, but mostly me, and how I sucked flamer cock or whatever. I joked a lot about sex and I was super gross, I know that, but it wasn’t _like_ that. I didn’t—I… I never—”

“I know,” Eddie says soothingly, sliding a thumb over his pulse, and it’s only then that Richie realizes how choked up he’s become. He tells himself again that he is _not_ going to cry about this. Miraculously, he holds it together.

“I was just a kid. And yeah, maybe sometimes I thought about—” k _issing you, always you, “_ kissing another boy, and sometimes I got, you know, _horny_ and thought about other—” _you, you, you,_ “stuff, fine, but I wasn’t a pervert or anything.”

“I know you weren’t, Rich. I know. It’s okay.”

“It’s kind of funny though, I guess. Because Pennywise figured I didn’t want people knowing and he always threatened to tell you guys, which is why I left without saying anything and why I couldn’t tell you when you asked. But he— _It_ —never did anything. Both times we went down there, It fucking knew the things I felt and never said a fucking word. That shitbag was turning into Bev’s dad and Bill’s brother and fucking burnt hands and a _painting_ , and nasty your leper, but never…”

Eddie’s eyebrows crawl up his forehead, chewing his lip to remain silent. He squeezes Richie’s hands and Richie squeezes back.

“There was that missing poster and a funeral flier. Obituary. Don’t ask. And the room with the clown dolls, be thankful you never had to see _that_. But I wasn’t afraid of clowns. I said I was but nah, and It knew that too. And he—” Richie pauses, not sure if this next line of thought will reveal too much. But Eddie’s looking at him, as open visually as Richie physically feels, and although he clamps his eyelids shut tight and shakes his head the impulse to just _say it_ doesn’t go away. “He used you to get me, you know. Mocking me, obviously. I wasn’t afraid of clowns, I basically _am_ a clown, putting on a smile when everything’s shit and trying to make people laugh for a living, but I was afraid of myself and—and losing you, all of you, because it was hard to show what I really felt. And It used you to get me in there, to show me my dead body—just a doll, with maggots and everything, dumb shit like that—and the poster was there again. Freaked me out more than the fucking clown mannequins, but what was worse came after, when your head popped up out of a mattress and you started…” His mouth clamps down when warring images assault his mind. Eddie, thirteen, spitting up black sludge; being right next to Eddie, forty, spitting up real, actual blood. Dying. Dead. “He’d fuck with me, is what I’m saying. He’d fuck with all of us, but it was out in the open for you guys and nothing more than a secret for me. Maybe that was part of it, I dunno.”

“Or maybe he knew your fear was bullshit,” Eddie says bluntly. Richie is instantly, irrationally offended. Those fears could have killed him, thank you very much. “It threatened to tell everyone you liked guys because that’s what you were terrified of, Richie. You didn’t want other people to know, especially not us. So why _didn’t_ he ever follow through?”

“Because he was a sloppy bitch who thought way too fucking highly of himself? Like, a Turtle God exists out there and he resurrected you and Stan. Some bitchy little space clown ain’t shit after that, Eds. We fucking _bullied_ It to death. Maybe he knew he was nothing but a pussy the whole time.”

Eddie smiles softly, not even annoyed by Richie veering slightly off. He tugs their joined hands to rest in his lap, making Richie’s heart thumps wildly.

“If Pennywise told us… we wouldn’t have cared, Richie. We would’ve been like ‘okay, so what?’ and then you’d know there was nothing to be afraid of. And that’s the opposite of what It wanted. He threatened to tell because that’s what scared you most and he never followed through because that’s all he really had against you, and if he told us the truth then he’d lose that leverage because _nothing_ would’ve changed. And if that’s seriously _all_ It could’ve done to knock you down… God, Richie, you’re so fucking strong. What the _fuck_.”

Richie barks out a startled, manic laugh. Then he winces. Eddie doesn’t know the full truth yet.

“Uh, yeah, no, I’m really not. I’m not strong and I’m not brave, I’m just—”

“Yes, you _are_ , you asshole.”

“No, I’m—That’s not the only thing it had against me, alright? The… the other thing is connected, but—”

“Okay, _and?_ Whatever this other thing is, Pennywise never used that either, did he?”

_T_ _hat_ makes Richie’s heart beat so hard against his chest that he swears his vision goes black for a second. He’d used _Eddie_ against him at Neibolt, had literally skewered him right over Richie’s body. He’d used Eddie against him, in a few ways, but not _obviously._

Pennywise had never exposed his secrets, that was true. Richie knows _some_ people would’ve cared that he liked boys, people like Bowers, _people who didn’t matter_ , but he never said anything to the Losers when it would have been so easy to, easier than taking the time to shift into everyone else’s personal fears. So if Eddie is right about It not wanting to let Richie know the Losers _wouldn’t_ hate him for liking other boys, then maybe… maybe that meant that they’d never hate him for loving Eddie, either. That Eddie, himself, wouldn’t want to cut ties. That it wouldn’t matter.

Then again, he said it himself. They wouldn’t _care_.

Richie deflates.

Pennywise not telling everyone how much Richie loved ( _loves_ ) Eddie was because it wouldn’t have _mattered_ to them. Not in a bad way, but more like… nothing would change. And Richie’s not sure how that’s supposed to make him feel. He’s always been ass at emotions.

_Eddie wouldn’t have cared because Eddie didn’t_ —doesn’t— _feel the same._

“Anyway, um, yeah. That’s all done with. I’m—I like guys, big woop. Not just sexually, but like, uh…”

“Romantically?”

Richie’s face screws up into some indecipherable, he’s sure. Eddie’s smile only grows, bright and beautiful like always.

“Yeah. I don’t really have experience in _that_ department, though. Trying to suck some random guy off in a club bathroom is a lot easier than trying to hold another dude’s hand in public, it turns out.”

“That’s… really awful.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” He shrugs, staring down at their joined hands and noting the difference in size, the way he seems to dwarf Eddie. They’re not in public so there’s no real worry. Here, holding hands with Eddie is unbearably _easy. “_ I’d say it’s fine but it’s really fucking not, so I’ll just say ‘it is what it is’ and move on. Not really anyone’s fault but my own. And also homophobia, but, you know. _It is what it is_.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that anymore,” Eddie tells him, like it’s one hundred percent true. He sounds grave, almost, like he wants Richie to not only hear him but also understand.

Richie shakes his head.

“You remember that guy Mike mentioned at Jade? Adrian Mellon? He was gay, dude. Some fuckers beat him half to death _because_ he was gay and Pennywise finished him off. Bowers is dead but there are a million other assholes just like him. And Pennywise… he’s dead, too. But that doesn’t mean everything’s all peachy keen now. I know you know how hard it is to get rid of baggage when you’re still afraid to acknowledge you even have it.”

“Yeah, I do know,” Eddie agrees, but he looks more stern than before. More determined. “And yeah, people are still people and fear is still fear and we’re stuck remembering all of it, but you know what? All of that happened and you _still_ told me you like men. All of that happened and you’re still _here_ , with me and the rest of the Losers, and when you go back to Chicago you’re gonna make changes you were too afraid to make before, and I’m gonna do the same. You know why? Because _you_ said I was brave and you were fucking _right_. You believed in me, even when I didn’t deserve it, and now I know what I’m capable of. I _know_ I’m brave and fucking hell, Richie, I know _you’re_ brave too. I believe it. Shit, dude, you _just_ showed me. So forget everyone and everything, and know when I say it doesn’t have to be like that anymore I _mean_ it. Realistically, yes, you’re bound to run into some bad shit—it’s pretty damn likely and your line of work isn’t exactly kind—but who the fuck cares? You killed a fucking _ancient alien clown,_ Richie! You killed our childhood bully! You liking men and writing your own jokes and being yourself… you can do it. You’re _going to_ do it. And it’s going to be okay. Even when it’s not, it _will_ be. And this isn’t me trying to sell you on the idea of some perfect happy future without hardships or flaws, because nothing like that exists. I’m the last person who’d ever blow smoke up your ass about that and the first person to tell you all the shit that can and _will_ go wrong, but you already _know_. You know and I’m telling you to go for it anyway. I’m telling you to look at the world and say _fuck you_ , _motherfucker_ because you can do whatever you want now.”

“Oh yeah?” The back of his throat is compressed and achy, but Eddie’s passion is like a balm that covers every inch of Richie in a soothing slather. His excitement is charming and contagious, too. Almost enough to make Richie smile. “That your professional opinion, Mr. Kaspbrak?”

“It is. So you better listen to me, jackass, ‘cause the next consultation won’t be so free.”

“I’ll give you anything you want, Eddie,” Richie says, far too earnest to be just another joking reply. He scratches the scruff on his jaw and looks away. “You’re really helping me out here. I mean, no offence to Ben and Bev, they’ve been great, but—”

“Ben and Bev know?”

Eddie seems surprised, but only a little.

“Yeah, um. They guessed.” He’s careful to leave out the part where the focus in those conversations had been on his love for _Eddie_ rather than just his attraction to men. “Or they made the fact that they knew increasingly and irritatingly clear until I just… came right out and admitted it.” He thinks back to the way he’d behaved after Eddie’s death and cringes, in pain _and_ embarrassment. “I think Bill and Mike might know, too. I didn’t say anything, but… oh, uh, and Stanley. Pretty sure he _always_ knew. And the few guys I ever actually managed to hook up with, it must’ve been pretty fucking obvious to them. But as far as me actually saying it? That comes down to you, Bev, and Benny Boy.”

“Okay.” Eddie licks his lips and Richie pretends not to stare. “I won’t say I’m not a little pissed by the fact that I’m apparently the last person to get the memo, but it’s fine. You don’t deserve me being a bitch about this, so I won’t. I just—”

“Hey.” He taps Eddie’s ankle with his toe. “Ben wanted me to tell him ‘cause he thought it’d help me work up to telling _you_. And Bev… I mean, you know how it is with her. She got you talking about your wife, didn’t she?”

Eddie grimaces.

“Point taken. But you had to work up to telling me? Did you think I’d give you a hard time about it? Like, ‘cause of my mom? Or do I just come across as a huge fucking prick? I know I give you shit a lot, but it’s never serious. It’d never be anything _bad_ about who you are or what you like.”

“I know. And it wasn’t always that, Eddie, I swear. Sometimes I thought you’d hate me, but then sometimes I just… I cared about what you'd think. I still do. And I love all the Losers, of course I fucking do, but you’ve always been my best friend. You’ve always been… I dunno, man. Something else. So, what you think about me, it matters. A lot more than it should, probably, but that’s the truth. If things had gone down differently—” _If you hadn’t fucking died and made me fall apart in front of everyone, to the point of my secret gay love becoming more obvious than Ben’s lifelong yearning for Bev… “_ If we’d all gone back home and I had a few weeks or months to process all this shit without feeling like I’m gonna puke every time I think about it, I might’ve come to you first. But Ben and Bev already knew and weren’t shy about letting me know it, and things felt easier that way since I was just fuckin’ confirming something instead of admitting it point-blank.”

“I get it, Rich. I guess I’m wondering how I’m apparently the only one who didn’t know? You didn’t tell me anything so I figured that was that and let it go. Maybe I suspected, sometimes, and the things you were saying back at the restaurant, they made me go _huh,_ but it wasn’t some big thing. Just an inkling.”

“For fuck’s sake, man. You _suspected_? You had an _inkling_? What does that even mean?” Richie needs to calm down before he has a fucking heart attack. He doesn’t think he’d be able to recover from one. “Okay, you know what? No, never mind. Everything’s cool. We had an adult conversation, I told you my big dark secret without shitting my pants, you’re on a roll with all this ‘the future is mine’ self-help bullshit. It’s been real, but I’m covered in more sweat than Satan’s ballsack right about now, so I say we pack this up for the time being and try to get some sleep.”

Richie drops Eddie’s hands and pushes himself into a standing position, grunting when his lower back audibly pops. His knees ache from all the so-called dancing he’d previously participated in, but his head hurts worse. He’s just so _tired_. Drained. Being emotionally open and vulnerable is terrible and taxing. How do people _live_ like this?

“Yeah, you’re right. Stan’s gonna get all pissy if we show up looking like zombies.”

“Is it bad if I say I missed him nagging us?”

“Nah.” Eddie grins as he brushes past Richie to grab a pillow and blanket from one of his suitcases. He smooths the comforter out before climbing back on, settling down with a sigh. “Is it bad if I say I missed doing shit that _made_ him want to nag us?”

“I mean, he’d probably think so, but I’m right there with ya.” He shuffles over to where he’d dropped his duffel and pulls out a pair of sweats and a wrinkled _Misfits_ shirt. “Hey, you know what we should do?”

Eddie’s intrigued utterance of “ _what?_ ” follows Richie into the bathroom as he begins to strip and redress for the night.

“We should dare each other to do a bunch of dumb shit tomorrow. See how long it takes Stan to snap and go berserk.”

There’s no reply right away, not even when Richie steps back out into the room and shoves his worn clothes deep into his lone bag. He strides across the room to fling himself onto the bed next to the window (which _does_ have a draft, go figure), and turns his head against the stiff, starchy pillow to meet Eddie’s watchful gaze.

“Do you really think we should stress him out like that?”

The worry etched across Eddie’s features pulls a breathy laugh straight from Richie’s chest.

“You saw him tonight. I think he appreciates everyone being normal about everything. He’s definitely expecting us to be little shits at the zoo so he can look all cool in front of his wife.”

“Well, when you put it _that_ way, I guess we’d actually be doing him a favor, huh? There’s no way Stan’s ever looked cool in front of anyone _ever._ He’d owe us for sure.”

“There we go,” he says with a laugh, feeling all warm and soft and stupid with the way Eddie’s eyes sparkle with mischief and affection. But then he frowns, darts his eyes away, and starts picking at the threads of his blanket with stiff fingers, afraid to be too obvious. 

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, trying to sound more sure than he feels.

“So, you said you didn’t want to… be the way you were, but you were more scared of people finding out. Did you ever reject yourself? Like, did you bury how you felt so far down your only choice was to ignore it? Or did you accept how you felt about—about other guys and just try to make sure no one else knew about it?” When all Richie does is blink at the unexpected query, Eddie makes a low noise of frustration, flops onto his side, and tries again. “What I’m asking is, like, was your issue about accepting _yourself_ or _other_ people accepting you? I feel like it’s the latter, but I just… I really need to know.”

“I, uh… there were times I _tried_ to reject myself, I guess, yeah. Where I’d think or feel something and say nope, not doing _this_ right now. But I think I knew that summer, really deep down, that being gay was just another part of who I was. Richie Tozier: big glasses, big mouth, big gay feelings. Actually understanding what was going on with me? Yeah, pretty fucking scary, but then I—” _carved our initials on_ _to_ _the kissing bridge,_ “—calmed down a little and sort of just took it in, and it made sense to me.” _The way I felt about you always made sense to me._ “I never really tried to hide it from myself because I was the only person I could risk being honest with, so I tried to hide it from everyone else instead. I was my own best friend in those moments. One half of my brain would be like ‘hey, you’re a big dumb queer today, just thought I should remind you,’ and the other half would be like ‘thanks, I know, but let’s make sure no one else does, alright?’ If that makes any sense at all.”

Eddie’s slow exhale is audible. His laugh is weak.

“Yeah, that makes sense. I think.”

“Good. Great. Anything else?”

“Not right now. Thanks.”

“Okay.” Richie reaches out to the lamp on the bedside table between them and clicks it off, plunging them into darkness. His glasses knock against the wooden surface when he sets them down. “Hey, will you remind me to text Ben or Mike in the morning? I’m all out of shit to wear and they’re closest in size.”

“I’ll remind you,” he promises. There’s silence for a few ticks, and then:“Yo, Richie?”

He tucks his hands beneath his head and yawns.

“Yeah, Eds?”

“Thanks. For talking to me. I know it’s not easy.”

Richie closes his eyes and smiles to himself. It had gone better than he could have imagined, that’s for damn sure. Maybe it’s because they’re older or because they have nothing left to lose. Maybe it would’ve always been this way. All Richie knows is that telling Eddie he’s in love with him might not be such a bad idea, after all. He’s pretty sure rejection will be the only outcome, although he’s also pretty sure their friendship could survive that little bit of turbulence. Eddie wouldn’t care, after all.

Richie doubts he’ll ever fully be able to move on from loving Eddie Kaspbrak (nevermind that Ben foolishly thinks Richie ever had a chance), but letting him know might not be so bad. Hell, Eddie might even be flattered, might let him down gently and _not_ treat him like his love is some gross inconvenience that needs to be avoided at all costs.

“No problem. Thanks for being someone Ican talk to.”

“Always. Night, Richie.”

“Night. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Fuck off. I’m suing this place if I wake up with a rash.”

_Don’t ever change_ , Richie thinks as his mind begins to slip under. The quiet has his ears ringing, but the usual panic that tags along is quelled for now.

His body does a weird thing where he knows he’s asleep just as clearly as he knows he’s not getting any rest. He’s within himself, pulled all the way under, but he’s outside as well, hovering on the edge. Not _in_ the Deadlights so much as understanding them; not remembering their haunting visuals so much as sensing what they’d left behind; not living through Eddie’s death so much as feeling the echoes of it rattling his bones.

And that round shape with too many eyes, swimming in a sea of colors and stars—or perhaps mere traces of him, lingering in the recesses with the rest of what’s been lost—covers Richie’s psyche in a thick layer of protection.

He slips into a dream that would make him blush like a schoolgirl if he thought about it while awake. A dream where Eddie wants to hold his hand when they walk down the street, not _just_ when either one of them needs comfort. A dream where Eddie wants to kiss his stupid face, to wish him good luck, to say _hi_ in the morning and _see you later_ at night, to show that he loves him, wants him, in a way no one has ever loved or wanted him before. A dream where Richie can do everything he’s ever wished for with Eddie without being afraid or nervous, without overthinking every interaction, without having to wonder if what’s between them is returned or not. It’s bittersweet, in some ways, and a sanctuary in others.

Richie’s slumber is unexpectedly interrupted by a terrible choking gasp. It takes only seconds for Richie to startle awake and get his bearings, slamming on his glasses and stumbling his way over to Eddie’s shaking, wheezing body.

“ _Eddie_ _,_ ” he hisses, sounding as if he’d swallowed a handful of gravel. “Eddie, hey.”

Richie places one hand on Eddie’s shoulder and the other on his back, feeling the sweat-dampened fabric alongside the erratic thumping of his heart. He tries to roll Eddie over and succeeds, but only after nearly getting a fist to the nose when the smaller man’s limbs flail out.

He doesn’t want to hold him down, make things worse, so he sets about manhandling him into a sitting position instead, sliding halfway behind him—a tight squeeze between his deceptively heavy body and the garish wooden headboard. He presses his chest against Eddie’s knobby spine, wraps his arms loosely around his waist, tucks his chin into the juncture between his neck and shoulder so he can whisper in his ear.

“Eddie, Eddie, it’s okay,” he says carefully, smoothing out the tightness in his voice with a deep breath. He pats Eddie’s thigh, letting his touch linger atop the firm meat of it. “Shh, come on. What’s up? Can you hear me?”

That seems to jostle Eddie into consciousness, though the way he claws at Richie’s arm, uncertain about whether or not he should stay or get away, is an obvious indicator that he’s not quite himself yet.

“I—I—I don’t—”

“Yeah, hey, hold on—”

“I don’t—don’t wanna—I don’t want to _die!_ ”

Richie squeezes his eyes shut and adds some pressure to his embrace, locking himself around Eddie like a damn octopus, all limbs and love and a desire to be comforted himself.

“You’re not gonna die, Eddie.” _Not again_. “You’re okay, right? We’re in a shitty motel in Atlanta, where you wrecked that guy at the front desk for me, yeah? It’s just us right now, but the other Losers are around. You’re safe. No one’s dying.”

“R-Rich?” His breaths are shallow. “Richie?”

“Yeah, yep. That’s me, buddy. It’s Richie.”

“ _Richie_ , I’m scared.”

Richie’s distraught by the admission, hating how the pitch of Eddie’s voice makes him sound so much younger, the same way it had after Richie had nearly gotten his face chewed off. He’s not saying it as an explanation now, the way he had with Bill in the Well House; he’s simply stating it for Richie to know, without shame or hesitation, like he trusts Richie to understand and _help_.

Eddie untangles himself from Richie’s solid grip to climb onto his knees so he can turn around—still gasping and shaking but, at the very least, more thoroughly aware—and then fling himself back into Richie’s arms as if there isn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. It reminds him of when they were kids, during those times where Richie would reach for Eddie at the first sign of trouble and Eddie would fall into him without question, their holds on each other equal in ferocity.

“I’m here,” he whispers into the sweaty strands plastered to Eddie’s forehead and temples. He’s not sure why that’d be comforting to a person in crisis, other than letting them know they’re not alone, but it seems to be exactly the kind of reassurance Eddie needs. “There’s nothing to be scared of, alright? I’m right here. We’re fine.”

“Richie…”

Eddie’s breath is a little more steady this time around, though he still has trouble evening it out. He presses his front to Richie’s the best he can in their awkward positioning, slides a hand between them to rest over Richie’s sternum, fingers spreading out towards his heart. Richie takes it upon himself to do the same to Eddie in hopes of grounding him.

“You wanna breathe with me? You can feel me, right? C’mon, together. Take your time but not _too_ long, alright, ‘cause then _I’ll_ start freaking out and we’ll be up shit creek. Bill and Bev’ll have to come save us.”

He’s pretty sure the shaky puff of air Eddie spews against his cheek is a chuckle. Richie smiles, triumphant.

His arm drags Eddie closer, anchoring him to his heat, and he’s really not even thinking about the way those muscled thighs bracket one of his own but he _is_ thinking about the hand that slides up behind his head to tangle in his mussed hair. He inhales through his nose to compose himself, but all he smells is _Eddie Eddie Eddie_ and it wrecks him little by little.

_“_ You wanna take a walk or something? I could get you some water—”

“No!” he rasps. Richie shivers. “Don’t. Don’t leave.”

“I won’t. I won’t leave. You’re not ever gonna get rid of me, Eddie. I’m your herpes, remember?”

“You fucking—”

Eddie cuts himself off with a huff and shakes his head, pulls back just enough to stare down at Richie in the dark. The hand in his hair unclenches and smooths over the mess it’d made. It’s impossible _not_ to shiver.

“Wet dream gone wrong?” He digs his thumbs into the knots making up Eddie’s tense shoulders. “Yeah, I know all about those. Relax, dude. Want me to turn the light on? _Shit_ , should’ve done that fir— _mmm!_ ”

Sweet, firm, scorching; three things he thinks the instant dry lips descend upon his. And then he thinks he must be having a psychotic break because there’s _no way_ Eddie fucking Kaspbrak is kissing him right now. 

Except he _is_.

Richie’s a spazz and counts how long it lasts (an awkward and tantalizing 17 seconds) rather than closing his eyes and making the most of his life’s wish come true by _kissing back._ He’s thankfully too far out of his wits to groan in protest when Eddie pulls away. He’s also too far out of his wits to reel him back in.

“I wanted to do that when I got you out of the Deadlights,” Eddie says, still relatively breathless. He cups Richie’s jaw, which has slackened from shock, and squashes their noses together. Both of them have stale breath but it doesn’t matter in the slightest. “You were already moving by the time I made it over, so I knew I didn’t need to, but I thought… _Jesus_ , Richie, I really wanted to. I remember Ben planting one on Bev and how crazy I thought he was for doing that, and how _gross_ it looked, but then it was _you_ and kissing you awake was all I could think about.”

“ _Eddie_.” His hold drops to pointy elbows, insides coiling tight. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out that the world has suddenly spun of its axis. “Are you telling me Bev was right about that, too?”

“Wait, what’d she say? I didn’t tell her anything, how the fuck would she know that?”

“She said you—”

Despite having asked Eddie doesn’t let Richie finish his answer. He dips in again without warning and it’s as sweet and firm and scorching as before, but there’s real movement now. Eddie’s lips part against Richie’s and not only does it feel like the end of the world, it feels like the start of a whole new one.

The short amount of contact breaks once more when Richie sags against the headboard in shock, tipping Eddie further into him as he goes. He feels shitfaced in the best and worst way possible. Love-drunk and riled.

“Eddie, _Eddie_ , what the dick—”

“ _Motherfucker,”_ he grouses, incredulous and under his breath. He palms at Richie’s chest like he used to do when looking for an injury, but it seems more likely that he’s just feeling him up now. Or maybe he doesn’t know where to put his hands. Richie doesn’t either. “I’m trying to kiss you, jerkwad—”

“Yeah, I got that, Casanova, but _why?_ ”

It’s glaringly apparent he’s said something wrong when Eddie lets go of him like he’s been burned and scoots away. Richie immediately wants to kick himself in the balls.

“I, uh, I wanted to? I wanted to and I thought—oh God, oh _fuck_ , I’m so fucking sorry, dude—”

Richie’s heart is well on its way to shriveling up and dying.

“No. No, don’t call me _dude_ right now, you fucking shithead. You can’t kiss me and then call me dude! And Jesus Christ, Eddie, don’t _apologize_ if you meant it. _Please_.”

“I _did_ mean it, of course I fucking meant it, Richie, just—” Richie can’t see much of anything in the darkness, but he can make out the movement of Eddie’s arm reaching for the lamp. Richie stops it midair before any light can reveal the jumble of emotions he knows must be contorting his features. “Richie, I want to kiss you. Do _you_ want to kiss _me?_ ”

“I mean, _yeah_.” He squirms under the twin laser-beams that Eddie’s gaze has become. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since we were kids.” _Woops._ “I’m just kind of, like—this can’t be real. I might pass out if it is.”

Eddie swallows with a click and crawls forward to slot his thighs on either side of Richie’s hips this time, which doesn’t work so well with one of his long legs hanging off the bed, but he’s practically in Richie’s lap with his hands—which are back to shaking, though not as badly as they were when he’d first woken up—rising to cradle Richie’s jaw.

“It’s okay,” Eddie whispers, nosing in close. “It’s real and it’s okay.”

And isn’t that the truth? No one’s here to call Richie names or tell him he’s wrong. No one can stop him from getting what he wants and giving it back tenfold. Eddie says it’s okay, so why can’t it be?

_It’s okay. It’s real. It’s okay._

If Eddie’s brave enough to kiss Richie, whatever his reasons may be (and really, Richie doesn’t know when he entered _The Twilight Zone_ , but he’s not about to question such rare good fortune, not yet), then Richie can sure as shit be brave enough to reciprocate. 

His palms are sweaty, his pulse is out of control, every single hair on his body stands at attention. He draws Eddie down to him the way he wishes he would’ve back underground, when he’d woken up to Eddie’s handsome, beaming face hovering in his field of view. Then he brushes his lips against Eddie’s in a kiss that’s as chaste as one he imagines his teenage self being responsible for. 

It deepens rather quickly, he couldn’t tell you how, and he melts like a maiden from one of those dumb Harlequin novels he’d sometimes find stashed around his house growing up, which he very much did _not_ read out of any sort of curiosity _ever_. The kiss is good, _really_ good, _outstandingly_ good, despite how simple it is. And when Eddie tentatively licks past his lips, the tip of his tongue pushing between Richie’s teeth to graze the roof of his mouth, a tendril of arousal curls low in his belly, quicker and punchier than a sting of a bee.

Richie’s got technical experience when it comes to working his mouth in a physical sense. He’s done it before with both men and women, although he’s only been mentally present for less than half the encounters on his embarrassingly short list, and emotionally available for none of them at all. He supposes Eddie has practical experience, being married and such—which should be the one thought that gets him to back off, but Eddie fucking _moans_ and collapses against him when Richie sucks on his tongue and that just instantly wipes away any and all fucks Richie might’ve given about the other man’s sham of a marriage.

Yet, while Eddie is full of passion, he doesn’t seem particularly skillful, which as A-Okay with Richie because it puts them on fairly even ground. He also finds it incredibly endearing, especially when he tries to turn away for a second of breath and is immediately yanked back in with an impatient grunt, their slick, swollen lips colliding harshly and inevitably, like opposite magnetic poles. And isn’t that how they’ve always been? Day and night, north and south, opposites made specifically to complement or attract. And the things they _do_ have in common gel so seamlessly, even in their combined chaos, that they become a matching set that should never have been sold separately.

He hauls his dangling leg up onto the bed to press into Eddie’s side, boxing him in. Eddie yanks away with a gasp to force Richie onto his back, neck cramping against the headboard, only to dive in again while blanketing him fully. The only problem with Eddie sprawling himself out on top of Richie’s prone body is the way his hips fit so snugly between Richie’s legs. Not just because he becomes aware of his erection, which has been steadily growing this whole time and now demands attention when Eddie accidentally grinds down on it, but because he also becomes aware of _Eddie’s_ erection; the way it drags against him, feeding the flames that spark from Richie’s raw nerve-endings with each unconscious shimmy of Eddie’s hips.

A desperate gasp of _holy shit_ is torn from his throat and swallowed by Eddie’s greedy little hum of surprise. The fingers on his jaw slide to the back of his neck, cupping his nape in order to bring him closer, and Eddie grinds down again, deliberate and enticing. All Richie can do is claw at the back of Eddie’s shirt, rucking it up midway, and focus on trying not to ruin the moment by sobbing when he ruts against him in turn.

“You good with this?”

It’s not hard to tell Eddie’s nervous, even in such a state of arousal, with how he shudders. Afraid of the answer he’ll get. Richie _is_ good with this, though. He probably shouldn’t be, but he’s a weak man in a lot of respects and the way he craves Eddie has always been the biggest one. Which is funny considering it’s _Eddie_ who makes him strong and brave and carefree, and then it’s _Eddie_ that goes and reduces him down so easily to the barest of structures, the basest of instincts, without even having to try.

Richie’s starting to think that maybe he does the same thing—that he’s doing it right now, at the very least—because Eddie’s looking at him with stars in his bambi eyes and Richie’s so fucking hard, and so fucking in love, that it’s starting to _hurt_.

He’s not even close to being a masochist, but he doesn’t mind this kind of pain as much.

“Yeah, I’m good with this. I’m fucking fantastic.” He flexes his fingers against Eddie’s ribs. “What about you? What, uh, what d’you—?”

“Can you touch me? Wherever you want, just fucking _touch_ me, Richie.”

“Okay, yeah, I’ll touch you. I’ll—lemme just—”

Eddie’s shirt gets pulled off his body and tossed to the floor, a soft sigh following it down, one that Richie matches. He knows Eddie’s basically ripped despite not being able to see a damn thing right now, which only serves to heighten every other sense. Eddie’s heavy breathing sends a shiver up his spine; the clammy skin beneath his palms, the coarse hairs his nails drag across, it all siphons what must be the rest of the blood swirling in his head and shoots it straight down to his cock. The sweat collecting on the line of Eddie’s upper lip is salty when he leans in for a taste and all he can smell is a cloud of soothing lavender mixed in with a hefty wave of natural musk.

He grazes his thumbs over prominent hipbones, traces the seams of matching webbed scars on chest and back, rolls his fingers against pebbled nipples, dips into strong collarbones and the deep hollow of Eddie’s vibrating throat. He latches onto the soft spot of Eddie’s neck that exists right below his ear, ignoring his own high-pitched whine that tumbles forth into the foggy air when Eddie goes straight to massaging the outline of his dick, not hesitating in the slightest.

He doesn’t even realize his own shirt has joined the one on the floor until Eddie shimmies downward and starts placing sloppy kisses all around his torso, starting at his pecs and going lower, to the soft barely-there paunch of his lower tummy.

“Eddie, Eddie—” Laying still isn’t an option. He feels itchy all over and like the only way to scratch is to wiggle beneath Eddie’s exploring touch. “I don’t have abs, Eddie!”

“Richie, what the fuck, I _don’t_ care.”

“ _You_ have abs.” He remembers that from the morning they’d spent together at the Town House. He can hardly restrain himself from kissing Eddie’s old wounds the way he had before. “Ben has abs. I think everyone in the Losers Club has abs. Probably even _Stanley._ Shit, can’t you imagine him, like, bench pressing a bunch of those ten pound bags of bird seed? Fuck, Eddie, I definitely do _not_ have _abs._ ”

“I don’t _care_. Jesus Christ,” Eddie stresses. A shuddering breath wracks through him as he drops his cheek against Richie’s navel. “Will you turn the light on?”

“Uh, no?”

“Can _I_ turnit on?”

“No. Nope.”

Eddie sits back up, using Richie’s thighs to brace himself.

“You don’t want to look at me,” he surmises. The utter sadness dripping from his voice is heartbreaking and very, very, _very_ wrong. Richie folds Eddie desperately into his arms and is relieved when Eddie returns the hug.

“All I _want_ to do is look at you, dumbass,” he admits with a shaky laugh, scraping his blunt nails down Eddie’s sides, feeling every inch of the shiver it elicits. “That’s the problem.”

“Richie, that’s the i of a fucking problem!”

“Well, for me, yeah. But for _you_ —”

“I’m turning the light on,” Eddie decides stubbornly.

And then he does, just like that. Easy peasy. Richie tells himself he only closes his eyes against the harsh change in atmosphere and _not_ so he can hide from Eddie’s searching gaze. It isn’t until jittery fingertips begin to dance across his biceps that he’s coaxed into blinking his sight back into existence.

Eddie’s pupils are blown, cheeks splotchy, nostrils flaring while his mouth hangs open. He looks so fucking _stupid_ and so fucking _sexy_. Richie’s dick jumps in his pants and he’s not sure if he should cover his crotch or his face or _both_ , but then that’d mean taking his hands off Eddie’s waist and that’s a big no-no.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

“Richie, don’t let this go to your head, but you’re—you’re fucking _hot_.”

He jerks his head back and grits his teeth to stop a bewildered moan from slipping out into the open. It doesn’t work.

“In the dorkiest, sloppiest, douchebaggiest way,” Eddie continues swiftly, voice low and reverent, “but still hot. You’re like… your shoulders—you bunch way to much, I never really noticed… and your biceps and your _face_ , right now. I dunno, you're— _I don’t know,_ but it’s really doing it for me, Richie, fuck. _F_ _uck_ _!_ ”

“You’re crazy, man. Fucking batshit,” Richie wheezes, giddy and a tad disbelieving, hips twitching when he spots Eddie reaching down to adjust himself. “Are you serious? If it came down to me or Ben—”

“Oh my god, would you _stop_ —”

“I’m just wondering! If it came down to me or Ben, who would you wanna fuck?”

Eddie has the gall to laugh while swooping in to shut Richie up with a bruising kiss, the sides of his hands resting atop Richie’s shoulders as he folds his fingers around Richie’s neck, thumbing at his earlobes.

“I don’t think Ben wants anyone to fuck him, first of all.”

“Anyone that’s not Bev. But for the sake of argument…”

“Fine.” He flicks Richie’s glasses up to purposefully send them askew, dopey grin coming back into view when Richie fixes them. “I would fuck you ten times out of ten, Richie. Ben’s a really handsome guy, but he’s not exactly my type either.”

“Between me and your mommy-wife I’m kinda scared to find out what your type actually _is._ ”

Eddie rolls his eyes, a familiar gesture in such an unfamiliar moment, and then leans back to study Richie with furrowed brows.

“Do you _want_ me to fuck you?” he all but squeaks. It’s a reminder of just how new this is to him and to Richie as well. That’s how he knows he can be honest.

“I’ve never gotten that far. And I’m like five seconds away from shooting it in my pants here, so I’m not gonna get that far _now._ But I’d want it, if—if we could. Or if you’d even…”

“I would.” Eddie tugs at the band of Richie’s pants insistently and he doesn’t even consider not lifting his hips to let him jerk them down to his knees, then his ankles, then off entirely. “I’m gonna fuck you next time,” he says with enough confidence to get Richie leaking in his shorts, the fabric stretched and damp around him. “I don’t know what I’m doing and you don’t know what _you’re_ doing, but we’ll figure it out together, okay? And, hey, you said you’d give me anything I wanted, right? I wanna do the same for you. Help me out here, Rich. What can I do?”

Well… in for a penny, in for a pound. 

“You can let me suck your cock.”

Eddie inhales deeply and tips his head back, palm digging into Richie’s clothed erection with almost too much force, though it has him aching just right. He bucks into the pressure with a keening noise that sends Eddie falling back rather dramatically.

“Fucking _fuck_ , yeah, let’s do that. Let’s— _p_ _lease,_ Richie, shit. Please—”

Richie wastes no time in pulling Eddie’s pajama bottoms and briefs off together in one go, and he stops holding himself back from this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when he comes face-to-face with the love of his life’s perfectly proportioned, perfectly hard, perfectly heavy dick. The position he’s in means he has to hunch in on himself while leaning onto his elbows to get his fist around Eddie’s slick, veiny heat, and it’s undeniably uncomfortable for his inflexible body, but he’d stand on his hands for an hour if it meant getting to take Eddie apart and then help piece him back together.

He gives three steady pumps, squeezing at the base and twisting at the head, and descends fully to lick a stripe up the shaft and suction his lips around the wet tip. He’d always been a fan of using his mouth for sexual pleasure, but he’d never really been anything but neutral when it came to the taste of jizz. Eddie has no particular flavor outside of mildly salty and the texture is as milky as the usual fare, but it seems so much _better_ somehow, and Richie is awakened in a way he thinks would’ve happened twenty years ago if the best parts of his life hadn’t been stolen.

He buries himself as far down as he can go without irritating his gag reflexes too badly and looks up over the top of his glasses when Eddie mewls and arches and digs his heels into the bend above Richie’s ass.

“Ri-chie, Ri-chie,” he chants. It’s the most wonderful symphony, erotic as all hell, and Richie slurps and bobs and groans with extreme effort and desire to match. He’s dragged closer by the hair, though never pushed to take more than he knows he can handle, and he’s gratified by the string of curses Eddie grumbles under quickened breaths.

He’s throbbing in his boxers and he loves it, even more so when Eddie digs his fingers into Richie’s bicep to stop him from trying to touch himself. Desire is going to drive him insane and he won’t even be upset about it.

_“Richie,_ Rich, I’m gonna fucking cum—”

_Oh Jesus_ _._ He switches to kneading Eddie’s balls while he pops off for some air, giving his jaw a break. With his glasses fogging over he can’t see much of Eddie’s pinched expression, only knows that he’s bleary-eyed and untamed and that’s more than enough to get him quaking.

“I got you,” he promises hoarsely, speeding up the movement of his wrist. “Cum in mouth.”

“Fff— _w_ _hat?”_

Richie knows that tone. Neither of them are in the mood for a lecture right now.

“You heard me. I know you’re clean, so cum in my mouth. I want you to. Give it to me.”

Eddie’s reply comes in the form of a moan, guttural and broken, hedging on a whine, and he erupts against Richie’s tongue the second he sucks him back in, flattening his tongue against a pulsing vein and groaning around the spurting head. He slips his glasses farther down his nose with his free hand to allow some of the fog to dissipate so he can witness Eddie in the throes of an orgasm. It is, without a doubt, one of the best damn things he’s ever seen. He nearly loses it himself, just seeing the long stretch of Eddie’s neck, the strain of his throat, the heaving of his bared chest, his scars contrasting with the flushed color of his skin beautifully.

Richie admires the view the way one might admire their favorite painting, analyzing every aspect eagerly, from Eddie’s fluttering lashes and the small O of his mouth to the ripple in his abdomen and the tension in his thighs. He wishes he could snap a picture to cherish long after this moment is over, though it’ll remain burned into his brain either way. 

Eddie pets Richie’s head clumsily after a few seconds of Richie suckling his spasming dick, taking everything he can while Eddie attempts to get himself back in working order.

Richie feels like he might burst into tears as it dawns on him, just how real this is. He hums instead, rubbing at the trail of hair leading down from Eddie’s abdomen to the base of the shaft he’s swallowing around, feeling it twitch in his mouth even as its milked dry, and slips the other hand into his boxers to finally offer himself some sort of relief. He’s able to thumb at the swollen tip three times before Eddie’s shoving him away to manhandle him horizontally across the bed, the bottoms of Richie’s feet landing on the floor with a thud. Both of his arms get pinned to the mattress in a flash, shocking and arousing him simultaneously. There’s something about Eddie taking charge that’s always left him breathless.

Richie whines unabashedly when slippery fingers tighten around his forearms and Eddie doesn’t hesitate to snuff the pathetic sound out with his tongue and lips and teeth.

“Eddie, _please_ _._ I’m fuckin’ _dying_ here—”

Poor choice of words considering this all started with Eddie panicking about death, but he doesn’t seem to mind in this context, so Richie keeps calm. He can’t do much of anything else, really. Except whimper and writhe.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Eddie heaves, words sounding a lot like gibberish given how wrecked he still is. Richie would be delighting in the unusual throatiness of that voice if he weren’t slowly succumbing to insanity.

“Easy for you to say. I just blew your neurotic little mind!”

“No comment,” Eddie mumbles into the bruise he’s taken to marking Richie’s neck with. His chest swells with emotion, only half of which is tingling pleasure. The other half is a lot more embarrassing and a lot more meaningful.

“You know it’s— _fuck_ —know it’s true. Eddie, Eds, light of my life, don’t make me throw you off so I can— _ah_ —go jerk it in the bathroom—” His head drops back off the edge of the mattress when Eddie’s fingers dip into the slit of his boxers to touch him skin-to-skin for the first time. It’s nothing short of electric. “You don’t have to do that,” he manages to say through the haze. “Tuck me back in and rub on top or something. I’m really close, it’ll be fine.”

“What’re you talking about?” Eddie squeezes him roughly. His hands are soft, like they’re used to a lot of lotion, and dry, like they’re used to an abundance of sanitizer, and his grip is _strong_. Absolutely in control. The technique is nothing to sneeze at either and it conjures all kinds of images in Richie’s barely functioning brain of Eddie touching himself through years of dissatisfaction. Richie’s core tightens at the thought, insides twisting about pleasantly blunt nails scrape his inner thighs, tickling the little hairs there. “Why?”

“You’re gonna get my cum all over your hand.” There’s nothing to reach for behind his head, so he grasps at Eddie’s shoulders for an anchor. His ability to speak is close to ceasing. “I know— know how you are ‘bout _bodily fluids—_ oh, damn, just like that, Eddie, _fuck!_ ”

Eddie’s eyes crinkle around the corners and he gives Richie such a fond smile, so much at odds with what he’s doing, that it almost becomes overwhelming. But then he glances away after a few prolonged seconds to peck above each of Richie’s hip bones, face so close to where his hands are working Richie’s dick that his cheek manages to graze the sloppy tip on a pass.

“I’m not worried about it,” Eddie rumbles, breath hot against sensitive skin, and Richie would think it a lie if not for the way he drapes himself entirely on top of him, sharing the same air with their lips mere inches apart. He kisses Richie softly. Shortly. One, two, three times; each one finishing off with a hearty _smack_. His dick is obviously soft after the load he’d shot just minutes ago, but feeling it there, pressed bare and spent against his leg, sends Richie into the beginnings of a spiral.

“C’mon, Rich.” Fingers slip behind Richie’s balls to rub against his perineum. He humps into Eddie’s fist shamelessly, unable to control it now. “I need it.”

“Oh, _you_ need it?”

“Yeah, I need it, need _you_ _._ Always need you, Richie. Don’t you know by now?”

Well, there’s nothing to say to _that_ , even if he could actively think of the words. Nothing else seems to exist right now, so he doesn’t try, doesn’t bother, just basks in everything he’s being given. This is a taste of what he could have ( _if only if only if only_ ) and it’s all so profoundly intimate that it causes something to _snap_ inside Richie’s brain and then click into place. He doesn’t have time to wonder on it, though, because indescribable pleasure hits him like a train, cascades over Richie’s entire essence in sweet, torturous relief when Eddie kisses wetly at his jaw and thumbs at the slit of his cock, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s purring Eddie’s name like a mantra as he spurts his cum between them.

_I love it, I love it, I love you_ — 

He uses his forearm to tip his glasses up onto his forehead, shielding his eyes from the unbearable world spinning on around him. He’s fuzzy all over. Boneless. Drained. There’s a stretch of time he loses to the buzzing in his mind, long enough for Eddie to leave and come back, apparently, startling him with a wet rag, but short enough for his heart to still be thrumming like a hummingbird’s.

Richie doesn’t bother trying to slap Eddie’s hands away when they wipe him down and tuck him back into his damp boxers with a level of normalcy, of _intimacy_ , that stems from a lifetime of knowing each other, in some capacity, and always wishing for more. Richie feels a fresh surge of courage with Eddie watching him so thoroughly, folding the soiled rag to a side that’s clean so he can wipe sweat away from Richie’s neck and chest, and it encourages him to do what he wants to without questioning it. He reaches out to stroke the scar on Eddie’s cheek, to comb through his unusually ruffled hair, to smooth out the cute little wrinkle between his thick, expressive brows. He gets lost in Eddie’s doe eyes in a way that should be mortifying, as exposed as he is, but all he knows is that it’s _right._

This has been, hands down, the best night of Richie’s life. In fact, the only thing that could make it better would be finally confessing his long-standing love and maybe, maybe, _maybe_ hearing it back.

But he’s not so foolish as to bet all his worth on the meager hope that _this_ might be anything more than one desperate night fueled by two friends seeking comfort in one another. Or maybe it’s even less than that, like two friends fulfilling an impulse to experiment without worrying about any lingering expectations. He doesn’t think that’s truly the case, it’s just… hard to know for sure. And an old mental blockade stops him from asking.

Eddie has already wiggled back into his teeny-tiny briefs by the time Richie is fully lucid again, so what he focuses on next, after tossing the soiled rag carelessly away, is shoving at Richie’s body until he takes the hint and flips around to settle vertically atop the bed. He melts into a pile of mush when Eddie takes his glasses off for him, turns off the light, and flops down to _snuggle_ under the person blanket he’d brought. It’s almost disgusting, how sweet it all is, and Richie would crack a joke if he was on the outside looking in, but he’s not and he won’t because this is _his_ life now and whatever’s going on is too fragile to poke at. 

And, honestly, he’s enjoying it too much to care. There’s no telling when or even _if_ this’ll happen again.

They never got many chances to be mellow growing up, always too eager to put on a show, expecting and demanding nothing less. Richie would never trade the high he gets from bickering with Eddie for anything, that’s who they are and that’s what they do, but just existing together, physically connected in the most comfortable way they can manage… it reminds him of the hammock. It reminds him that so many things have stayed the same even as so many things have changed, and that both sides have major merits.

He can be himself without feeling petrified over what people might think. He can look to the future without underestimating the things he deserves. It won’t ever be a cake walk, but it _can_ be easier than fumbling around in the dark and latching onto whatever he bumps into.

The atmosphere is bordering on awkward the longer they remain stiff and quiet. Eddie keeps acting like he wants to do something, keeps stopping himself before he can carry it out. Richie, who doesn’t want to let go yet, rolls onto his side, facing the window and the bed that was supposed to be his, and lifts Eddie’s arm to wrap around his waist, turning himself into a spoon of the littlest variety, the way he’d been at the Town House. He shouldn’t fit bit somehow _does_.

“I can’t believe you said I was hot,” Richie mumbles into the pillow, hiding his smile in the sheets.

“Yeah, well.” Eddie clears his throat. His hand rests gently atop Richie’s hip. “Lock that away and never speak of it again.”

Richie snorts.

“Is that why you got so defensive when I said Audra called me ugly? ‘Cause you think I’m a sexy beast?”

“Calling yourself a _sexy beast_ is decidedly _un_ sexy, never do it again. And for the last time, she didn’t call you ugly. Because you’re _not_ _._ So shut the fuck up.”

“But I really do it for you?”

He’s not fishing for compliments. He’s not even teasing. Richie can hear the vulnerability in his own voice and it’s terribly surreal.

“C’mon, Rich,” Eddie chuckles fondly. He sounds so fucking bashful, Richie can hardly believe it. “You know you do. You always have.” There’s that _always_ again. The tips of Richie’s ears go hot. He can’t mean that literally… can he? “What about, um… I mean, do you—”

“You really do it for me, too.” His hand gently curves over the smaller one hanging in front of his body, cradling the curve of Eddie’s fist. “Seriously. You check all the boxes.”

“Yeah? Even though I don’t look like a team of Brazilian soccer players?”

“You’re such an idiot,” he says with an airy laugh. “Yeah, _really_. You’re better than that. You’re like a fucking dreamboat, Eddie, stop pretending you don’t know.”

Eddie sniffs, like he’s been insulted rather than complimented, but Richie can feel his lips spread into a smile against his nape. He shivers and burrows deeper under the blanket.

They don’t feel the need to say anything else, for once, and Richie drifts off with Eddie tucked against him, the contentment that had spread throughout his chest bubbling around a twinge of leftover anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *well that escalated quickly*
> 
> One: I am not a smut writer, but I wanted to do this for them. It's what they deserve. But this chapter is also more than that, with Richie coming out to Eddie and Eddie making the Big Move, so I'll try not to be too embarrassed.
> 
> Two: Okay, so this isn't really /THE/ confession, that's still coming (very, very soon), but it's /A/ confession. And Eddie absolutely took what he could get and ran with it. lololol. 
> 
> Three: I can't believe we're here already. Wow. I really, really hope you enjoyed this chapter and that the looooooong wait was worth it. There's still a bit more to come, of course, so hopefully all that will be worth it too. But I'm dying to know what you everyone thinks! Please, feel free to share your thoughts. I'm so excited to get to this point!


	10. Story Of Our Lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [past me, apparently: anotha one!]

Richie is sick to his stomach.

He’s wearing a button-up from Mike, the large collar popped to hide a massive purple hickey, along with an undershirt and jeans provided by Ben. His stomach’s half full and churning from the light breakfast Stan had called them all over to eat at Patty’s insistence before riding out. 

He’s bumping shoulders with strangers as they push through the zoo’s entrance and normally he’d be feeding off all the energy erupting from such a busy place, but instead he occupies himself by fiddling with his janky glasses and looking over the neatly typed itinerary Stan and his wife had handed out in the parking lot, steadfastly ignoring the _looks_ the other Losers occasionally send his way.

Bill’s are scarce, with most of his attention aimed at Audra, but still overly curious. Mike’s are mildly uncertain. Stan’s are incredibly enigmatic. Ben and Bev are twins in their knowing _and_ their concern. But it’s the looks Eddie throws him—sad, confused, pissed, indifferent and, above all, defeated—that contributes the most to Richie’s unsettling sickness.

He’d woken up happy, which was such a foreign concept that it ended up scaring the living hell out of him despite all his internal claims of acceptance hours prior. He’d even kissed Eddie before he could think about what he was doing, before he could wake the fuck up and realize some hard truths were probably going to come forward in the new light of day, and then fucked off to the bathroom to dry heave into the toilet before Eddie could so much as respond.

The timid smiles and noncommittal hums he used in reply to Eddie’s stilted attempts at conversation only served to make things worse.

And the thing is… the thing is, he _knows_ he’s slipping; pulling back and away from everyone, from the help or advice he’d readily be given if only he’d _ask_. He _knows_ he could go to Beverly or Ben and tell them about what happened. He _knows_ he could stick with Stan and Patty if he wants to be included but not made a spectacle of. He _knows_ Bill would step away from his wife at intervals just to check in and that Mike would give him some kind of uplifting, storybook-esque spiel about the power of love and the importance of believing enough to take a chance, blah blah blah.

He _knows_ it all but it’s as if his brain is stubbornly resolved to ignore the wishes of his heart and just move past everything regardless of what he and Eddie might talk about (he’s _pouting_ about being ignored, for God’s sake! It’s cute and sad and Richie wants to disappear), if only he opened up to the possibility.

Eddie’s dick had been in Richie’s mouth last night and Richie’s dick had been in Eddie’s hand, and they’d kissed each other silly, shared the same air, the same heartbeat. Eddie hadn’t wanted to let go of Richie in his sleepy, sated state—until Richie had ruined it all by throwing up the walls Eddie had been fighting to be let through.

He doesn’t need anyone to tell him what his biggest hurdle is, but it’d be nice if someone could explain what everything they’d done and said meant to _Eddie_. Of course, only Eddie himself could really answer that, but Richie’s too cemented in Chickenshit Mode to start a confrontation. Or conversation. They feel like the same thing.

Petting the goats and sheep at 10 relaxes him minutely, zipping around the aerial playground at 10:30 refuels him, observing the Giant Panda at 11 softens his demeanor. He’s nearly back to his old annoying self when Forage Like a Kori comes around. It doesn’t last long, however, because when they pause to grab a lunch of chicken tenders, cheese fries, and Caesar salads from a food truck and sit down at a patio area to eat, he’s all but clammed up again. He’s fighting with himself every step of the way to not fall into old habits of growing distant, hiding behind humor, pissing people off until they give up altogether. He can’t do that here, doesn’t want to, and so the only option is to work through his grievances and set himself on a forward path.

Squeezing in beside Eddie on a picnic bench doesn’t seem like a step in any direction, and the fact that he can’t figure out if Eddie is pleased or miffed by the contact he’d been shying away from isn’t a great sign, but it can be a start if he lets it. Last night could have been a start, too.

Richie breaks out into a sweat when their gazes lock.

They’ve got a while before the Zoo Train makes its rounds, so when Richie receives a call from his manager, the third of the hour, he uses it as an excuse to escape from his chattering friends and the tension that only seems to grow thicker inside his and Eddie’s bubble.

He winds up near a tortoise habitat as he brings the phone to his ear.

“Hey—”

“Rich! Rich, what the hell! Did you get any of my emails? You said you’d try to make Reno, you didn’t make Reno, we _lost_ Reno, Rich. And we lost San Fran because of that, and we’re on the verge of losing Pittsburgh—”

“Look, man,” Richie sighs, “I fucked up big time, but a lot of shit’s been going on—”

“You said that in your text! But that’s _all_ you keep saying. What’s going on, huh? Talk to me, Rich.”

Jesus, his manager sounds so much like Eddie, it’s insane. And weird. Unsettling.

“I don’t really wanna get into it, y’know? Just a bunch of personal assfuckery. There was a hometown emergency and things are pretty chill now, but I’m still with my friends—”

“Oh, you’re with your friends? Oh, that’s good, Rich. That’s great. My ass is on the line for you and you’re having a fucking vacation!”

“Two of them almost fucking _died_ , Steve, alright?” he snaps, curving a hand around his mouth to get a little more privacy when some passers stare. “I feel like I’ve literally been through hell and back. And it’s _my_ fucking ass that’s on the line here, don’t get it twisted. You can walk if you want, no hard feelings, I know I’m a piece of shit, but you can _walk_ and someone else will grab you up and you’ll be fine. _I’m_ the one who’s losing shit! My fucking career! And you know what? I don’t really care. Fuck my life! I’ll try to fix everything once I get home, with or without you, but I’ve got more important things to worry about right now, bud.”

Richie, who’s fired up from saying his piece, deflates easily when there’s no argument on the other end. It’s so utterly silent that he has to glance at the screen to make sure the call’s still going. He bumps his glasses up to rub at his eyes. 

Steve, unlike Eddie, has never been able to match him like this. It’s why he’s good at managing Richie. It’s also why Richie has never cared to get to know him beyond that.

“You okay, Rich?” Steve asks after another minute of nothing.

“No, I’m not fucking _okay_ , Steve.Sorry, I just… I think I will be. I mean, I’m getting there. And really, you can quit if you want, but I’m serious about going forward once I’m done with all this, so I could use your help if you think I’m worth it.”

“Well… it’s gonna be hard, maybe even the fight of your life—” Richie laughs outright at the irony, at the ignorance, “—but you’ve got talent, Rich. I think you can recover from this, so I’ll stay on. You’re gonna need a new publicist, though. I can call in a favor—”

“Yeah, go ahead, do whatever. And fire the ghostwriters.”

“Rich? Did I hear that right?”

“Yep, you heard me. I’m gonna write my own shit and it’s gonna suck fucking monkey balls ‘cause I’m rustier than Bill’s bike, but at least it’ll be me up there. _Actually_ me.”

He hears a lot of shuffling in the background, a bunch of paper being shoved around. He hears the clattering of a keyboard, too.

“Bill who? Am I supposed to know a Bill?”

“Bill Denbrough,” Richie says through a shit-eating grin. He’s not above a little name-dropping. Sue him.

Steve guffaws.

“Wait, you mean the writer? William Denbrough? _He’s_ your friend?”

“Yeah. Not of of the two who almost died though, so don’t go spreading that around. And don’t go full fanboy on me either, Steve. He’s super lame in real life. Anyway, did you get what I said? About the set?”

“I—shit, yeah. Fine, Rich. The team’s as good as gone.”

“It’s just a conflict of interest, you know?” He tries to sound calm and carefree. Even with his heart jumping up into his throat, he thinks he does a pretty good job of it. “All the girlfriend jokes. Don’t get me wrong, embellishment’s a true craft in the business, but I think all that shit was getting stale. Maybe I can switch it up, talk about my nonexistent boyfriends—”

He cuts himself off this time, not because he didn’t mean to say what he said but because he hadn’t thought about what to say after. He hadn’t thought about saying _anything_ so personal, but he sucked Eddie Kaspbrak’s dick not even twelve hours ago, goddammit, and nothing will ever be as shocking as that.

One of those switches Eddie had been talking about must suddenly flip on because, wow, he’s feeling brave again.

_It is what it is._ And this is what it is.

“Oh? Oh, you—”

“Ask the publicist about it. No, _tell_ the publicist, find a new one if they say no.”

“Say no to—?”

“To me being me. I’m still Richie Trashmouth Tozier. I always was and I always will be, but it’s the right way now. I can’t be anything else. I won’t.”

“Okay, Rich. I’ll do that. And I’m gonna cancel Pittsburgh and try to book something a few months out, give you time to get an act together, how’s that sound?”

“Like a lot of pressure,” he says carefully. Then he takes a deep breath and shrugs. A tortoise waddles slowly across the grass in front of him. “But I’ve got a lot of ideas to match, so maybe pressure’s a good thing. Look, I’m in the middle of something right now. I’m at a fucking zoo and people’re gonna start taking pictures and posting them around all those fancy little social networking sites—”

“Richie, you have accounts on all those fancy little sites. Have you not checked them? No, don’t answer that, I know you haven’t and I’m asking you not to start now. I definitely need to call that publicist first—”

“Okay, so hop to it, my good man. I gotta go.”

“Will you pick up next time I call?”

Richie rolls his eyes at the accusatory tone.

“Yeah. Maybe. Actually, why don’t you wait for _me_ to call _you?_ I promise I will once I’m ready to fuck off back to Chicago.”

“Alright, Rich. I’ll get everything ready for you ‘til then, I promise. But I think I deserve an explanation—”

“Sure thing, Steve,” he replies offhandedly. “You’re gonna get a raise, man. Like, a nickel’s worth, since I’m feeling generous and might also be on the verge of going broke.”

“That’s funny, Rich. It really is. But seriously—”

“Adios, compadre. Catch ya later.”

His finger finds the red button before anything else can be said. Steve’s a good listener, a great person, and a stellar manager—a ghost of Eddie he’d kept close even before he remembered who Eddie _was—_ but they’re not particularly close beyond the bond they share professionally. Any personal details Richie chooses to share are usually in favor of boosting his career, like disclosing his sexuality in order to change his material to something more reflective of his character, but getting any deeper than that isn’t something he cares about doing in the near future. He’ll already have his hands full juggling the Losers and figuring out where they fit into all this. Hopefully.

Richie taps the phone to his forehead and thinks about asking Stan to create an itinerary for his whirlwind of a life.

“Do you think we should call security?” He’s startled by the sudden sound of someone standing much too close. “I’m sure they’d appreciate being informed that their new human-primate hybrid escaped its enclosure.”

“Oh, yeah?” He turns to Stan, speak of the devil, with raised brows, trying not to flush under Eddie’s pensive stare. “Do they know they’ve got a belligerent Great Curassow roaming the grounds, too?”

Stan smirks.

“I’m almost impressed you know what that is.”

“What’re you doing over here anyway?” Eddie asks, uncrossing his arms to place them on his hips. “Harassing a ninety year old tortoise?”

“Harassing my thirty year old manager, more like.”

“Great, you’re a fucking diva. You get it all out of your system? The tour starts in five and I don’t wanna be late.”

Richie opens his mouth to fire something back as Eddie begins to turn away. Stan holds one hand up to silence Richie and drops the other hand down to grip Eddie’s elbow, stopping him in his tracks.

“I think you two should skip the tour—”

“No fucking way, Stanley!” Eddie stomps his foot in a fit. “They’re going by the giant otters first, and they’ve got a whole lecture on red pandas, and the _lemurs_ —!”

“You don’t even _like_ animals,” Richie argues. “What’s so great about lemurs? They’re scary as shit—”

“I think you should skip the tour and _talk_ ,” Stan asserts above them both, calm and unyielding. “In private. About whatever it is that’s changed since last night. You guys have always been odd, but this is… different. I can tell.”

“ _You’ve_ always been odd,” Richie grumbles, acting just as petulant as Eddie. “I don’t know what to tell you, Stanley. Everything’s cool.”

“Cool? Are you forty or thirteen?” Stan rolls his eyes and sighs. He steps closer to Richie, pulling Eddie with him, when a family shuffles by. “Listen. I wrote letters to everyone, before I…” Richie feels a pang in his chest when Stan looks away in shame. “Patty was supposed to send them, but things didn’t exactly work out the way I planned, did they? Nothing ever really works the way _any_ of us plan. I think that’s part of being a Loser. But no matter how many things went wrong, we’ve always been able to make our own way when it was necessary, and from what I’ve heard that’s a skill the six of you haven’t lost.”

“You haven’t lost it either, Stan,” Richie tells him softly. Eddie nods sympathetically, reaching out to pat Stan’s arm.

“I think I did, Richie. For a while. And then I just… gave up. You know, I try to take the easy way out because I’ve never felt the need to push myself into things I couldn’t make sense of. I became an accountant because there’s no room to second-guess myself when every error can be factually solved. I married Patty because I knew I’d fallen in love and I knew all the signs of a good future, a strong marriage, were categorically there. When we tried to have children and nothing came of it, we made the decision to move forward and focus on other aspects of our lives. Every choice I ever made after leaving Derry, I always made sure the final result ended with me having the least to lose. It worked for the most part, but having this second chance made me realize… that’s no way to live. I don’t want any of you to make the same mistakes. I want _all_ of you to live the way you were meant to. And if that means working through things you might not be ready to face, or are too afraid to admit, faster than you’re comfortable with, then so be it.”

Richie feels like staring down at his twiddling thumbs as Stan lectures them, forever the only adult in the group.

“Geez, Stanley. You’re gonna give Bill a run for his money in the speech department if that’s the kind of thing you wrote in those letters.”

He glances at Stan, then Eddie, then the tortoise.

“It’s a message worth repeating, so, yes, it’s all more or less the same.” He’s not wearing a cardigan today, not while under the full brunt of Georgia’s summer sun, so he straightens his immaculate shirt instead and offers a serene smile. “Those letters I wrote, I’ll show you some day, but I want you to understand _now._ What I did… that wasn’t a decision I made lightly and it _was_ the only one I knew would put us at an advantage. Ironically, it was the only one where I had the least to lose. I… I remembered everything because of Mike’s call and I could see how backwards I’d let myself become. Because, even doing what I was about to do, I knew I wasn’t about to _lose_ my life; I was about to _get rid_ of all the terrible things that had been haunting it. I believe I wrote something along the lines of: being a Loser means you don’t have anything to lose.” He shakes his head, still smiling. “That’s my new philosophy. What do you think?”

“Well, if we’re looking purely at a risk-reward system, statistically—”

“No, Eddie. No statistics. What do you _think?_ ”

“That you’re right, I _guess_.” Richie rubs his mouth to hide the smile Eddie’s sass forces him to wear. “I don’t know what you want meto say. I’ve been trying to talk to Richie all morning, he’s just being a stubborn prick, so don’t ask _me_ if I’m on board with Project Zen.”

“Hah. That’s a good one, Eds,” Richie stage whispers, basking in the twitch of Eddie’s mouth.

“I know it is. That’s why I said it.”

“What about you, Richie?” Stan pivots to him in the face of Eddie’s insolence. “You ready? Nothing to lose, remember.”

“Fuck off, Stan,” he says boldly, without heat. Stan always seemed to know far more than he should have. “Where do you want us to have this little heart-to-heart? The bathroom?”

“Absolutely _not_ — _”_

“Here.” A ring of keys glimmers in the light when Stan holds them up. Eddie snatches them out of the air before Richie even blinks. “You can use my vehicle—”

“You mean the _Sedanly?_ ” Richie teases, recalling how Patty let that tidbit of information accidentally slip earlier that morning. 

Stan glares.

“I have three conditions,” he continues as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Don’t leave the parking lot, don’t spill anything on the upholstery, and don’t get arrested for public indecency.”

“Uh huh. Yeah.” Eddie’s face is as red as a tomato as he spins around to power-walk away. “ _Fuck off_ , Stan, for real!”

Richie, having no choice but to follow, waves to Stan and steels himself for what’s about to go down.

It takes a long time to walk through the layout with everyone on the premises rushing to their destinations. Kids are screaming, adults are shouting, the elderly are complaining. Animals are being tended to by handlers and pointed at by customers. The air is hot with a breeze that hinders more than helps, stifling the oxygen he’s already struggling to keep a steady supply of.

Stan’s car is cleaner than anything you’d get straight off the lot and reminds Richie of something an eighty year old would drive. A very practical sunshade covers the windshield, but the leather seats would still be capable of burning his skin if he were wearing shorts or a thinner shirt.

Eddie slides into the driver’s seat, reaching for his seat-belt on instinct as Richie drops down next to him, both their doors slamming in sync. He leaves himself unbuckled since they won’t be driving and fiddles with the AC once Eddie sticks the key into the ignition, blasting it immediately to chill the stuffy interior. Their hands bump when Eddie slams forward to mute Patty’s opera CD.

They sit for several minutes, cooling off and gathering their thoughts. Richie glances at Eddie from the corner of his eye repeatedly, knowing he’s got to cross that log now and touch down on whatever ground the other side offers. He has to accept that there won’t ever be a _right time,_ a right moment, unless he makes one for himself.

Stan was right about not having anything to lose, now. He’d fucked around with Eddie and refused to talk about it after, and yet the other man is still _here_ , willing to fix things. No matter the depths of what Eddie feels or where this confession might lead them, Richie’s positive their friendship will survive. They won’t lose it, but they _will_ get rid of this burden.

Trust Stan to always be right.

“So, you’re done ignoring me?” Eddie digs through the center console until he finds a travel sized bottle of sanitizer, squirting some into Richie’s hands and then his own. He drops the bottle back where he got it and slams the lid down. Richie props his elbow on top of it. “We can have a conversation like rational adults, right?”

“Not really sure we’re capable of that, but yeah, sure, let’s give it a whirl.”

“Alright, then, tell me this. What _was_ that last night? Just your usual bullshit?”

It’s hard not to rise to the bait, not to take Eddie’s stiff tone as an offense he must bat away with sarcasm or deflection. He has to be better than that. Eddie _deserves_ better than that. 

Now or never.

“No, Eddie, come on. I never screw around with people I care about. Last night wasn’t bullshit to me.”

“Okay,” he says evenly, unnaturally so. Richie feels too small for his skin when he hears: “Then it must’ve been a mistake.”

“Don’t say that. _Please_ don’t say that.”

“ _I’m_ not saying that, Richie. I’m trying to figure out if that’s what _you’re_ saying. I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you or me or… or us. Richie, I don’t— _shit_.”

Richie bites the inside of his cheek when Eddie turns toward the window to hide his expression. The fists he taps against the steering wheel do nothing to mask his frustration and anxiety.

“Let’s face facts,” Richie says as calmly as possible. “Let’s be real here.” Eddie’s fingers relax against the wheel at the promise of honesty. “You ever… you ever think about how we talk the most shit but never really _say_ anything? Not when it needs to matter.” Richie wipes his sweaty palms against his knees. “We had sex last night, Eddie. You and me. Together. And the way it felt to be with you like that, it was better than I ever imagined it could be—and I’ve fucking imagined it a lot, let me tell you.” Richie doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s chest stutters on a breath. “But I still don’t know what the fuck it _means._ You know, I woke up happy? I can’t remember the last time that happened. I opened my eyes and you were there, and I’m blind as shit but you were so close, I could see these little smudges on your nose and I knew they were your freckles. You still have them. Not as many, but... but you looked so fucking cute, just laying there, and I felt so fucking _good_ —” He rubs at his eyes harshly to keep the tears at bay. “You were looking at me and I kissed you. Didn’t even think about it, just went for it, like I’ve wanted to do so many damn times, and that’s when it hit me. What we _did._ Like, holy balls, we were all over each other, _we had sex_ , but what the fuck does that mean, right? I didn’t know, I couldn’t ask. I’m just so fucking confused, man. So I did what I always do.”

“You ran away.” Eddie turns, resting his chin on his right shoulder. Richie tilts his head back onto the headrest. “You ran away, but you’re here now, Rich. I told you I wouldn’t let you get far, didn’t I? That’s why _I’m_ here.” His insides twist into knots when Eddie curves a hand around his bicep. He thinks about shaking it off, though he can’t bear to lose the support. “You could’ve asked me. I know it’s hard— _Jesus_ I know—and maybe I wouldn’t have had an immediate answer ‘cause this is fucking new for me, too. But you’re not the only one who’s scared. And yeah, I know you think I’m brave, and I know I have it in me to be, but I’m really fucking scared. I can’t always be the one starting shit. Like, I kissed you first, maybe that’s what you’re confused about, but fucking _grow a pair_ and ask me about it, Richie! Don’t just act like we can forget it happened!”

“I’m not! I’m not trying to forget. And I couldn’t ask, Eddie. _Fuck,_ I couldn’t ask. You don’t understand.” He chances a glance at Eddie’s face. I couldn't and I didnt, but what I _can_ do is _tell_ you something that’s been a long time coming, and then you can tell me, after, what it means to you. Or, like, I don’t know, you can tell me to fuck off, if that’s what you want. But I need to say it. I _want_ to say it.”

Eddie takes his hand away from Richie’s arm, turns the AC down so it stops blasting so noisily, and twists in his seat to face him head on. Being under Eddie’s full attention has always made him giddily nervous but also outstandingly reckless and embarrassingly pleased. Nothing about that has changed.

He’d craved being noticed as a kid, sometimes took it for granted when Eddie chose to spend time with him over anyone else, even sometimes _Bill_ , because he never quite knew how to handle how much he enjoyed it. Eddie had been right about how Richie shut himself off whenever anyone peered too closely. But Eddie was always looking, always watching. He’s doing it now and Richie won’t throw that away anymore.

“I carved our initials on the Kissing Bridge that summer. When I was thirteen.” It comes out of his mouth in a rush. He refuses to regret it. “The _Kissing Bridge_ , Eddie. Where people went to suck face and carve names. And I didn’t do it ‘cause you were my best friend or my favorite Loser or because I was making a stupid joke. I did it because I was in love with you. And I _couldn’t_ say it, I couldn’t tell anyone, but I couldn’t keep it in. I had to make it real somehow and that felt like the only way. And you know what? I’m _still_ in love with you. It was one of the first things that came back when Mike called. My tiny, explosive, hypochondriac best friend, the kid I loved before I even knew what love really was. Remembering him made me understand why my whole life turned out fucked. And you wanna know the craziest part? It was seeing you again and realizing I’d been loving you, missing you, _wanting_ you when I didn’t even fucking _know_ you. Jesus, that clown took you guys away from me but he couldn’t erase you all the way. I loved you all too much for that.” The tears are back, threatening to spill at any second. He forces himself to look Eddie in his big, sad eyes. “I loved _you_ too much for that. I love you now, and I don’t know if last night made it worse or better. I mean, kissing you and touching your dick and making you feel good, that was basically the highlight of my entire existence, there’s no doubt about that, alright? But now I’m fucked and not even in the fun way since I don’t know if I was just an experiment or a rebound or some, like, familiar _thing_ you needed after what went down. You’re a mess and I’m a mess and I’m madly in love with you, in a very gay way. Your legs in those stupid red short-shorts were my sexual awakening, man.” His cheeks burn when Eddie covers his mouth with both hands. He stares at the aluminium-blocked windshield and takes a moment to breathe in and out. “The way you made me feel when you were annoying the shit out of me and letting me annoy the shit out of you, I think that was my romantic awakening, too. I know you’re the only person I’ve ever loved this way and I know you’re the only person I’m _ever_ gonna love this way, no pressure. I’m a pathetic asshole, but I can’t let it go. I thought I was gonna have to, when—” The memory of Eddie’s lifeless body, of Richie being dragged away from him for what he was sure was the final time, flashes at the front of his mind, tearing a wounded noise from his chest. He shakes his head violently, willing it away. “Over these last few days I’ve kept telling myself, anytime I ever thought about spilling the beans, that it wasn’t the right time. But what happened last night… you kissed me, Eddie. You let me suck your dick and you didn’t even care about getting my jizz on you, and I got scared this morning but I’m done being a coward.”

“Richie…”

“When I saw you at the restaurant, I thought ‘ _fuck, he’s beautiful. He was always cute, but now he’s hot as hell. And he’s married, Trashmouth, fuck off_ ,’ and I jumped right back into what I knew we used to do, being assholes who can’t figure out when to quit, and then at Neibolt—”

“ _Richie_.”

“I woke up and your face was right there and I wanted to kiss you, too! I wish you would've, Eddie. Maybe we’d both be dead if you had, I dunno, I just—you were right there and I thought I was in heaven or some shit ‘cause I’d just seen all of hell, and I almost told you then. I almost—when you were… bleeding out all over my hands, and you went and cracked that stupid joke, _my_ stupid joke, and I froze up. I didn’t want to lose you, but I _did_. I lost you and if you hadn’t come back I’d be living the rest of my life regretting that you didn’t _know_. You deserved to. And now I have another chance, so… I love you, Eddie. I’m _in_ love you. That’s it, that’s all it’s ever been. I love you when you’re being crazy and mean and stubborn, and when you’re being the sweetest, bravest, most caring fucking human on the planet. I love you when I piss you off, you get this fire in your eyes and you keep up with me better than anyone ever has, and you drive me fucking _insane_ when you look at me with your big doe eyes, and you make me feel like I’m actually worth something for once in the entirety of my sorry life. I even love you when you’re scared and mad and when you won’t _shut up_. I’d listen to you forever, talking about germs and statistics and fucking _ThunderCats_ or whatever your favorite show is now. And I want to just… I want _you_ , all the time, always. And—”

A strangled cry startles Richie, drains him of confidence, and seeing Eddie’s face buried in his hands, wedding ring a terrible contrast against his skin, sets a panic churning in his gut. 

“Hey, hey, _no_ , don’t cry. That’s my thing, please—just, I’ll shut up now, I’ll go fuck myself, and then I’ll come back and we can pretend—”

“No, you _jackass!_ ” Eddie shouts hoarsely, dropping his hands to clutch at the collar of his polo shirt. Richie can see a hickey that matches his own when the fabric shifts. “I’m done pretending! You said what you said and I’m not letting you back out of it!”

“I’m not trying to! I’m not, but having you burst into snotty tears after I give my big gay confession isn’t exactly—”

“I love you too, Richie. You fucking _moron._ ” Richie’s body jerks on instinct. _Error, error, cannot compute_. “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me, or anyone, and—and that whole thing you just said, all of it, I’m so, so sorry. I love you. I really do. I love you because you’re my best friend and I love you because I’m _in_ love with you. Shit, that doesn’t even—look, I’ve been _wrong_ my entire life—”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Eddie."

“I felt like there was. I felt like…” He pauses to sniffle wetly, trying to compose himself. Richie searches the pocket on the passenger door for some napkins and hands them over hastily, keeping a couple for his own nose as it begins to water. “Why do you think I told you about the leper? Why do you think I fucking asked you if you cared about what other people thought more than what _you_ thought of yourself? Pennywise knew about me, too. Only I was so far in denial I couldn’t understand what it really meant, so I'd have to convince myself that what I felt for you was the same as what I felt for Bill or Stan, even when I knew it was different. _You_ were different. Like, I’d make these stupid ass excuses for why I behaved the way I did around you until I could bury everything and ignore it. But it never went away. And what you feel... it's the same for me, you know? I couldn’t remember there was this lanky, four-eyed idiot who got me acting like a doofus just to get his attention, but he was always there in the background, taking up half my freaking heart like a giant _asshole_ , and then I saw you and, yeah, It came right back for me too. I did a shit job at ignoring it this time, huh? Talking about kissing you in front of everyone. Get a fucking grip, right? I can’t believe I said that.”

“I’m not complaining,” Richie promises, more serious than light. Eddie scrubs at his face with an overdone scowl.

“I guess it’s just... I couldn’t run from it anymore. I lived with my mom for so long, then I replaced her with Myra, and I never got a chance to be myself, to even know what that could look like. And I take responsibility for some of it, I can’t put it all on them. _I_ let it happen, but fuck, man. The fucking _clown_ had to be the one who dragged up everything I’d been keeping somewhere I didn’t even know existed. And being back in Derry with you and all the Losers made me realize that—that loving you isn’t something I can escape from, Richie. It’s part of who I am and no matter how hard I tried or how far I was willing to go, I couldn’t run from myself. Having you with me again, and getting to hear you and see you and fucking _hate_ you and _love_ you—I accepted wasting my life, when I was dying down there. I accepted it because I knew at least I’d done something worthwhile in the end, by coming back and helping out, and when I was out of it... seeing you lose your shit to the point of having to be dragged away—which, do not _ever_ pull a stunt like that again, Richie, I _swear_ to _God_ —I just, I came back knowing I didn’t wanna keep lying to myself or living a life you couldn’t be part of. And I’ve been trying to nut up just to tell you, or get you to tell me first, ‘cause I didn’t always _know_ but sometimes I thought, maybe, and sometimes I hoped. So yeah, I’m in love with you, dickface. And I know now the only thing that’s wrong is us having to lie and pretend and forget. I’m tired of being miserable, I’m tired of not having you. Not just as friends—like, I’m happy we have our memories back, I’m fucking ecstatic that I can talk to you whenever I want, that you're right where you're supposed to be—but I want you all the way, every day, and I just—I _want,_ Richie. Everything we were before, the bickering and poking and existing in each other’s pockets, but with, like, kissing and holding hands and, I dunno, fucking the shit out of each other?”

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Richie wheezes, trying to use his overshirt as a means to shield part of his reddening face. He shifts in his seat when his abdomen clenches and Eddie laughs, a cackle that’s a little self-conscious and a lot carefree. 

Richie’s dizzy from everything he’s just heard. His thirteen year old self probably would have ran away screaming, locking himself in his bedroom to trace R + E on his forearm with a Sharpie like a lovesick fool if he knew any version of Eddie would ever wind up saying sappy shit like _this_ to him.

“I tricked myself into thinking it was _just_ friendship before. I won’t claim I was on the same level as you. I mean, I knew I loved you in a way I didn’t love anyone else. I wasn’t carving our initials anywhere, but I had this fantasy before I left where you’d follow me to New York and everything would be normal, everything would be fine, and then something crazy would happen. Like you’d be helping me study somewhere, probably my dorm, and then you’d just _look_ at me for a really long time and I’d get flustered and annoyed, and you’d be like ‘hey, Eddie, wanna make out?’ I’d yell about how gross you were and then I’d stick my tongue in your mouth anyway because I’d do anything to get your attention and I’d do anything to be able to touch you the way I knew was wrong but didn’t care, and then I’d fucking cry about it like a bitch but it’d be okay because you’d be there and we wouldn’t be in Derry, so maybe it woudln’t matter, and things could work out.” Eddie sighs and shoves his used napkins into a neat pile inside one of the empty cup holders. “Realistically it was never gonna happen, even if we remembered, and it wasn’t just _timing_ or how messed up we both were. You were my best friend, Richie, I didn’t _want_ to feel like that, not for anyone at that point and especially not for you, and I didn’t want to be sick like my mom said, like the leper made me feel, and I didn’t want to ruin anything. But even when I didn’t know your name or recognize your face on TV, I always had this thing inside me, and I _know_ what it is now and I… I can honestly say I’ve accepted it. I really have and I’m so—I’m glad you’ve accepted it, too. Because if you’re you then I’m me and everything makes sense that way. I love you for a lot of reasons and that happens to be one of them, that we can be _us_ and still be alright. And I know I’m fucking insane ‘cause, somehow, the most chaotic person I’ve met in my entire life is the only person, the only thing, that lets me be normal and grounded and actually, genuinely happy. I want to make you feel all that, too. And if I do then you better kiss me right the fuck now, before I start having an asthma attack—”

“Panic attack,” Richie murmurs absently, half inside himself and half out, with tunnel vision so bad he’s barely aware of having spoken at all. “You don’t have asthma."

He finds himself leaning forward, taking one of Eddie’s hands in his and placing another on the side of Eddie’s face, thumbing his ear.

“Ri-chie,” he hiccups, gripping onto Richie’s wrists to lock him in place. “ _Do_ something, dickhead.”

He ghosts his lips over one dimpled cheek, then the other, lingering on the raised line of Eddie’s scar, and from there he kisses the round tip of his freckled nose, the smooth jut of his chin, the strong curve of his jaw. He moves his hand up to trace thick brows, relishes in the way Eddie’s eyelids flutter, nostrils flaring, when he combs his fingers from hairline to crown.

He cradles Eddie’s head, guiding him forward, kissing him _first_ this time around. It’s slower than the way their mouths slid together the night before, lacking in urgency but not at all in tenderness, and when it becomes overwhelming to the point of needing to pull back, Richie doesn’t. He stays the course, dives in deeper, holds his palm over Eddie’s heart to feel the way it gallops, matching him tenfold. He's aware of the vibrations in his own throat when Eddie wraps his arms around his back and hauls him closer.

The center console digs into their abdomens, creaks under their weight the farther they lean in, but neither complain and they definitely don’t stop. The kiss stays sweet. Unhurried. Richie coos _I love you_ in between slick slides and stuttered breaths, and melts under Eddie’s groan of approval.

It’s not until their lungs are burning that they part, Eddie’s head dropping to rest on Richie’s shoulder. He smooths a hand down Eddie’s back, then up again, dipping beneath his jacket so only the thin layer of his shirt separates their skin, and turns the key to finally shut the ignition off.

“Hey.” He bumps his nose against Eddie’s temple to get him to look up. “Good? Bad?” he questions, sounding as nervous as he feels. “No feedback at all?”

“I’m not gonna stroke your ego,” Eddie says through a sweet little grin.

“Well, you were stroking _something_ last night—”

Richie’s laugh is full of delight as he shrinks away from Eddie’s punch.

“I fucking love you,” Eddie snarls, almost as if he’d meant to say hate. It's powerful and real and Richie beams so hard his face begins to hurt. 

"Yeah, I fucking love you too. I can't believe this." 

“Hmm. C’mere real quick.”

Eddie smacks a wet smooch to Richie’s forehead when he tips forward, then shoves his face away playfully, their huffs seeming loud in the sudden quiet. Richie doesn’t want to push anything too fast by grabbing Eddie’s hand when he knows what he wants to say next might not be welcome after how well they’ve been able to communicate and forge this new bond. But while Richie Tozier might be more than a little drunk on the revelation that Eddie Kaspbrak is in love with him after all, he’s present enough not to leave himself in suspense over some of the finer, messier details.

“Well, I guess the scary part’s over, huh? But the hard part’s just beginning."

“You mean… what happens next.”

“Yeah. I’m not trying to put more pressure on you. We’re both going through a lot right now—"

"Fucking _understatement_."

"And I heard everything you said, but it’s like… you getting a divorce doesn’t mean you’re gonna automatically want something with me, you know what I’m saying? I’ll wait as long as I have to if this—” he gestures wildly between them, “—is something you’re serious about giving a try. I just need to know what we’re gonna do. Or if that’s where this is headed.”

“I’d like it to be,” Eddie affirms, mouth twisting this way and that as he ponders the road ahead. Richie doesn’t look away from all the captivating little twitches in his expression. “Okay, here’s my idea. For the rest of the day we should think about what we want, come up with pros and cons for what it’d take to get it, as a preliminary aid, and we can compare notes—”

“Geez, I didn’t know there’d be a pop quiz on getting my shit together. _Fuck_ me. You want an essay to go with it, Professor?”

“Okay, _asshole_ , I just thought it’d make sense to look at our situation from both perspectives, see where our goals align and what compromises can be made to achieve an end result, but if you think you can do better—”

“No, no, I’m just saying—”

“Well, _I’m_ just saying—”

“Okay, Eddie,” he laughs, reaching out to hold his wrist. “I’m just messing with you. I’ll make a list, alright? And it’ll be an amazing list, way better than yours—”

Eddie splutters, though he doesn’t yank his wrist away.

“It’s not a competition, fuckface! The whole point of this exercise is to work as a _team_ —”

Eddie grows immediately silent when Richie gives him a swift peck on the lips, feeling a surge of adrenaline as he does it. 

“You can’t just—just _do_ that and expect everything to be okay,” he says like the cute little grump he is. The flush high on his cheekbones is precious. Richie would take a picture if he didn't think it'd be creepy.

“Yeah, yeah, I—” he starts to reply, semi-apologetically, but he's cut off by Eddie sealing their mouths together in a proper kiss, always eager to come out onto top. His shoulders shake with silent laughter at the thought—until Eddie licks into his mouth, diving in with a level of heat this type of situation wouldn't normally warrant, and then _he’s_ the one who’s blushing.

Eddie looks decidedly smug when they pry themselves apart.

“That’s gonna be the first thing on my list.” Richie waggles his brows, making Eddie snort. “Kissing Eddie Kaspbrak, pro numero uno!”

“Oh yeah?” He’s glowing with happiness; eyes crinkled, nose scrunched, smiling wide and full with dimpled cheeks and a rare display of teeth. “What’s the con?”

“Uhhh, that you’re married?”

Eddie’s expression flips so fast Richie nearly gets whiplash. His glare is exasperated, though. Not angry or upset. The way his chin wrinkles with his exaggerated frown takes Richie back to the 80s, back to the motor-mouthed boy with sunkissed skin and feather-soft hair.

“I love you,” Richie says once more, serious and smitten, simply because he _can_. Because it’s _welcome_. Because he wants Eddie to never forget. “I love you a lot.”

Elation washes through him when Eddie pats his knee, fingers spreading over his thigh, that severe frown gradually evening out.

“Love you too, Richie. A lot-a lot.”

“Pfft. _Dork._ ”

“Troglodyte!"

“Don’t spew your fancy collegiate words at me, you sententious curmudgeon!" in a bizarre accent he’s been cultivating since youth. Eddie’s shock is instantaneous.

“Holy—was that the _British Guy?!_ Richie, your British Guy sounds British now? What the fuck!”

“I’m a man of many talents, my good fellow!” Switching back into his normal voice, he adds, “You knew this.”

“Well, what else can you do?”

“All the basic, boring party tricks. Pacino, Schwarzenegger, Walken, Speedy Gonzales. You already heard my Jabba, which is some of my best work. Top tier. Oh, hey, d'you still get hot for Skeletor?”

“What the fuck are you even talking about? I _never_ —” Eddie yells at the same time as Richie loudly proclaims: “I can give it a try, if you want. Probably need to warm up—”

The opening tune to Quiet Riot’s _Bang Your Head_ rings loudly through the car, drowning out both of their voices, cutting them off. Richie grabs his phone, quickly glancing Mike’s name on the screen above a blurry picture he’d snapped during their impromptu road trip, and accepts the call, switching it to speakerphone.

“Hey, Mike. What’s crackin’?”

“Hey, Rich. Is Eddie with you?”

Instead of answering, Richie looks to the man in question with a raised brow.

“Yeah, Mike, I’m here. What’s up? Everything okay? Did Bill get mauled by a tiger?”

Mike’s chuckle is smooth and hearty.

“No, no, Bill’s fine. Almost got kicked by a goat, but he’s fine. I was just wondering what was going on, since I called you first and you didn’t pick up."

“Shit,” Eddie mutters while fumbling for his phone. “Yeah, sorry about that. I switched it to silent earlier, Myra kept—” He stops. Scratches his head. Sucks on his teeth.

“You have fun on the Crazy Train?” Richie asks, stepping in for both their sakes.

“Oh, yeah! It was great! Lot more tame than it would’ve been with you two here, though. We just finished checking out some pandas. Ben got to feed one, we thought he was going to cry—Ah, hold on… Stan’s asking if you’ve wrecked his car yet.”

“I resent that!”

“Tell Staniel we’ve followed his rules to a T. I haven’t whipped my dick out even _once!_ ”

Eddie groans in a way that Richie’s sure would resemble a dying cow if he knew what one sounded like. He waves Eddie’s annoyance away and pulls the phone closer to himself.

Mike clicks his tongue over the line.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna tell him _that_.” There’s distinct bitching in the background that Richie knows _must_ be Stanley. Mike keeps the peace by not relaying any messages. “We’re heading over to the gift shop now, if you feel like joining us.”

“Sounds good, Mikey.” He checks with Eddie to make sure they’re on the same page. They wince when bev shrieks something unintelligible in the background. “We’ll meet you there.”

“Alright. See you guys soon.”

Putting his phone away and reaching for the door, Richie pauses on the handle and looks over his shoulder at Eddie, who’s mirroring his position.

“I gotta know… you have any pros for me yet?”

“Actually, I’m starting with the cons.”

His heart would’ve fallen if not for Eddie’s inability to maintain a straight face whenever Richie is involved.

“You’re killin’ me, Smalls!”

“I know you’re quoting a movie—”

“Not _a_ movie, Eds. _The Sandlot_ is a masterpiece!”

“Yeah, sure thing, _Squints_. But I’m pretty sure your intention was to make fun of my fucking height again, and I’m just wondering if you have early-onset Alzheimers because I fucking _told_ you I’m taller than Bill—”

“Put it on your list, you L7 weenie.”

The slam of the door masks Eddie’s outraged scoff and Richie can’t even pretend he isn’t laughing as he strides purposefully toward the entrance. He’s got long legs but Eddie’s in way better shape, so he doesn’t get far before he’s being rammed into so roughly he nearly trips. Eddie’s hand on his bicep steadies him, even as he snorts in contempt, and then that hand is slipping down to Richie’s and folding itself inside, fingers twining together naturally despite how hesitantly they twitch.

Richie’s first instinct is to check around for prying eyes, arm going stiff. He’s never done anything like this in _public_ , held hands with another man, and he’d said as much already. But then his second instinct kicks in when he looks down at Eddie, who exudes anxiety and appears to be seconds away from making a run for it, and Richie calms at the fact that this isn’t just a random guy, it’s the _one_ guy he’s been mooning over for decades. It’s _Eddie_ , the love of his goddamn life. If somebody wants to say something or take a stupid picture, fucking big whoop. Richie isn’t letting go. He clasps Eddie’s hand tightly, heart pounding a mile a minute, and keeps moving forward. The way Eddie leans slightly against him without saying a word reduces him to instant mush.

The only thing Richie feels in his stomach now is the giddiness of a teenage dream becoming reality. He’s sick with love and that’s about all.

*** * ***

It’s not surprising that Richie’s list consists of more pros than cons. He tries hard to make them even, one con for every pro, he really does, because he knows a future with Eddie isn’t going to be all roses and rainbows, he just… doesn’t have as many issues to sift through in this scenario. 

His career might take a hit from coming out and he might fall victim to familiar twinges of pain at whatever disparaging comments are bound to be thrown his way, but none of that is _specific_ to Eddie or their burgeoning relationship. He wouldn’t mind moving anywhere in the country if it meant living with or at least close to Eddie. He wouldn’t mind waiting until the divorce is finalized before doing or becoming anything more. So the only real cons that are left are: a) half-assing this new stage in life because of lingering anxieties, fears, or problems they’re in the midst of shaking off, and b) keeping their feelings hidden away like dirty little secrets from their pasts.

The rest of Richie’s list is nothing more than a sappy love letter, filled with wisecracks and innuendos (he’s still a Trashmouth, after all),that Ben would surely be proud of. It’s disgusting.

Richie can’t stop smiling.

He’d spent the rest of the day—or the rest of the day _after_ the Olive Garden dinner they’d eaten, sitting in uncomfortably stiff clothes with damp, frizzy hair following their little splash around in the zoo’s fountain—thinking about what Eddie’s own list might end up being and it’s on his mind, still, as he climbs out of the shower. Barely any steam fogs the mirror due to how long Eddie had been using the water before him.

He drips toothpaste onto his shirt, blotting it away as he walks out into the room, halting mid-step when he spots Eddie propped up on a bed with his thumbs typing hastily on his phone. The bifocals perched on his nose are nothing short of a blast from the past.

“Wow. You look like such a grandpa right now.”

“Guarantee you’ll go gray before I do.”

“I could pull it off. Silver foxes are in, _bay-be_.” Eddie hums noncommittally, continuing to stare down at the screen. “Are you hammering out all the cons now, or…?”

“Huh? Oh, no, I’m emailing my attorney.”

Richie grunts an _oof_ as he sprawls out on the bed by the window, not having been expecting that at all. He scrubs a hand over his face and whistles.

“Yowza!”

Eddie turns his head at the exclamation, blinking rapidly after tugging his bifocals off.

“What are you doing?”

“Uh… laying down?”

“I can see that, genius. I meant what are you doing over _there_?”

“Oh.” His voice cracks embarrassingly. “Force of habit?”

Eddie nods gravely, like he’s in the midst of solving the most difficult of puzzles. There’s close to a minute of full-on staring before he slips out of bed—phone, blanket, and pillow in hand—and shuffles over, deciding to climb over Richie’s body rather than step around to the other side, elbow digging into Richie’s stomach and knee getting dangerously close to Richie’s crotch. He yelps and swats at Eddie, who squawks and swipes right back, flopping down gracelessly, face-to-face.

“Wanna switch?” 

He watches Eddie try to situate himself in his new spot, blanket coming up to his ears to block out the draft coming from the window at his back.

“No,” he says stiffly, but then he smirks when Richie jolts at the sensation of cold toes slipping up the leg of his sweats.

“I knew you were just using me for my _hot_ _bod_ ,” Richie jokes. He tugs at Eddie’s blanket without much force, just to give his hands something to do.

“Maybe,” Eddie teases. His gaze sweeps over Richie’s mouth, down to his bobbing throat, landing on the bruise he’d sucked into the stubbly skin there, and it evokes a visible shudder from Richie that causes Eddie’s lips to part.

Richie scoots a little closer. Their noses brush when Eddie tilts his head up.

“Hey, you wanna make out? Cross off one of your fantasies while we can? We’re not in a college dorm, but seedy motel room is close enough, right?”

“We’ve already made out. And fuck off, I never should’ve told you that!” he yells right into Richie’s face, disrupting the tranquility of the room. Richie grins broadly.

“No, we get to share shit like this now! Want me to tell you one of my fantasies?”

“I dunno, does it involve my mother? ‘Cause if it does I’m gonna throw you out the fucking window, Richie, I swear to God—”

“Come on, man, don’t you know I’m over her?”

“You literally tried joking about you two being married, like, _days_ ago—”

“That was before I moved onto smaller and better things!”

He pats Eddie’s cheek (so soft, so smooth) and gets kicked in the shin.

“Fine, I’ll bite,” he says, thumb stroking the beard that’s been thickening over Richie’s jaw. He’s badly in need of a shave, but the tickle he feels when short nails scrape across those tiny prickly hairs is tingle-inducing. “What’s your fantasy of me, Rich?”

“Whoa,” he chokes, shifting his hips when the muscles in his abdomen grow involuntarily taut. “Maybe don’t ask me like _that_ ,unless you’re prepared for things to get a little bigger down south.”

“Didn’t you say you use Viagra? How are you _this_ much of a horny teenager right now?”

“You bring it out in me, Eds. You’re like nature’s Viagra.”

“Oh, okay, that’s nice. Do you know the definition of _romance_ , motherfucker? Look it up!”

“Will you make out with me if I do?”

Richie reaches for his phone before Eddie can answer, taps a web browser and waits for it to load. He forgets the phone entirely when a hand covers his to pull the offending item away, dropping to the bed with a thump as a leg hooks over his thighs. He’s urged onto his side by Eddie’s foot against his ass, then rolled on top of by tugs on his arms and shoulders. Flush against each other, Richie cranes his head down just as Eddie begins to surge up, arms lifting to rest around his neck, and they meet directly in the middle.

This might not be their first kiss, but the action, the allowance of carrying it out, is fresh enough to make Richie tremble with anticipation and nerves. Eddie’s always had a way of making Richie feel too big for his body, too lively to keep still, too skittish to wind down, too frenetic to back off. He feels all of these things now and basks in them, as if he’s merely drifting in Eddie’s orbit, rendered senseless to anything outside of soft lips, wet heat, searching hands, tender nudges.

Richie’s never been a particularly romantic man. In fact, he might’ve peaked in that department at age thirteen when he carved those initials onto a bridge in his hateful hometown. But here, held in Eddie’s arms, consumed by his passion, he _doesn’t_ need a dictionary to understand the meaning of the word. For Richie, romance has always been _Eddie_ ; knowing him intensely, touching him gently, sharing banter brashly.

Loving him unconditionally.

And being loved _by_ him, without rhyme or reason or benefit. That’s the only fantasy he’s ever truly had. It’s the only one he’s ever needed, even when he couldn’t remember. There had _always_ been something wistful surrounding the idea of being in a relationship despite his unwillingness to try, combined with his emotional unavailability. Eddie existing in the world is precisely why.

“This _is_ my fantasy, by the way. Being with you. Doesn’t matter where or how, just—it’s you. Always.”

“You’re a fucking sap,” Eddie tells him, hardly able to grunt it out because of how thick his voice has become. “I love you.”

Richie rarely ever cried as a kid. He’d pretend things didn’t bother him or show his upset through apathy, mania, and even sometimes anger. On the rare times he happened to let himself be truly sad over something, he’d fall completely silent, refusing to make even the quietest of sounds, until those feelings passed by like raging storm clouds. And the happy tears, the ones people cried from sheer joy alone? He can only remember coming close twice, way back then in Derry, and both of them had had to do with his friends.

Richie rarely cries as an adult, hardly ever at all before reuniting with the Losers Club. He’d deflect the pain, laugh it off or drink it away, smile in the face of confrontation instead of facing it head on with a dirty, sarcastic quip. His younger self would have been ashamed, he thinks, of how hollow he’d become. The only times he can remember crying in the last five years (a handful, maybe) all involve alcohol and some sort of crisis after sex.

And then Eddie had crashed right back into his life and tore open the floodgates with his tiny, angry hands. It hadn’t been _all_ him, of course. The repressed memories, the clown’s manipulation, the staggering fear, the loss of his friends and then the re-attribution of them—all of those aspects played a major role in his emotional instability. But it’s the presence of Eddie, in all his five-foot-nine firecracker glory, that rips Richie’s resolve to ribbons and shreds.

He’s not tearing up quite yet, but as full as he is, tipped to the brim with emotion, it’s a fairly close call.

“Love you.” It’d be awkward, how long it’s taken him to reply, if it weren’t for the way Eddie’s eyes spark with endearment when he finally does. He receives another kiss too, which short-circuits his brain, but pulls back mere seconds later to speak something he knows Eddie deserves to hear. “Proud of you.”

“For what?” he asks carefully, fishing for any compliment Richie might be thinking of giving. So he pretends to consider his answer, twists his mouth, closes one eye and then the other as his head bobs side to side. Eddie gives him a light slap on the cheek. “Saving your ass?” he prompts. “Helping you find your balls? Making you feel less like a middle-aged Muppet?”

“Ha, _excuse_ me! We’re both middle-aged Muppets, you dick. Bert and Ernie style.” Clearing his throat, he recites: “ _Hey, now I know what I’ll get Bert for Christmas_ ,” in his best imitation of Ernie. “ _I’ll get him a cigar box to keep his paper clip collection in!”_

Eddie presses a hand over Richie’s mouth, fingers smearing streaks over his lenses, and digs his palm harder into Richie’s nose when he dares to lick the sensitive skin in the center.

“I think my dick just shriveled up and fell off, you piece of shit.”

“Yeah? Here, lemme check.”

He reaches down, grinning when a laugh tumbles out of Eddie, his minty breath ghosting Richie’s nose. He’s allowed a second’s worth of mild groping before Eddie grips Richie’s wrist to pull his hand away.

“What’re you proud of me for, Rich?”

“Well—” He steadies himself on his elbows, which bracket either side of Eddie’s head, just above his shoulders. “Everything you so eloquently said already, obviously. But also, the whole divorce thing? Actually taking steps to go through with it? I know it’s not for _me_ _._ I know that. But maybe that’s what I’m most proud of, you know? That you’re doing it for yourself. It takes guts to go that far when you know how tough it’s gonna be. And it makes me really fucking happy, knowing you _believe_ you deserve better, no offence to the new Mrs. K.”

“You never stop, do you?” It’s with Eddie’s mouth grazing his that he murmurs a contented _mmm, nope. “_ You’re right, though. I’m doing this for me, _because_ of you. And Bev. And all our friends.” He fidgets with the hem of Richie’s shirt, eyes slipping closed. Not quite content, just contemplative. “I was never… in love with Myra. I think I cared about her somewhere along the line. I probably still do, in a lot of ways, the same way I used to care about my mom. You know how that was. I couldn’t hate her no matter what she did because at least I knew she loved me. That’s how it is with Myra. Like… the stuff they did for me, it’s stuff I thought I needed them to do, but it’s _bullshit_. It’s always _been_ bullshit. I’m really fucked up and yeah, I blame them both for some of that, a lot of it, but I’m not an idiot. The way I’ve been living, temporary amnesia aside, that’s on me. It’s _my_ fucking fault for staying and I know that, so it’s down to me to fix it. I have to tell myself I’m strong and brave and that I don’t have to keep wasting my life. I can get it right this time.”

“Like I said—” He knocks his knuckles against the top of Eddie’s head, smiling softly when one eye peeks open. “I’m proud of you.”

“Well, can _I_ just say I heard you on the phone earlier and I’m proud of _you_ , too? You’re super annoying, but you’re funny as hell and stupidly charismatic, and you’re really fucking charming when you want to be—do _not_ say shit about it. I just, I know you’re gonna do great. Even better than you have already. And—” He huffs then, yanks Richie down by the back of his neck so he can hide in the crook of his neck and shoulder. It’s so adorable, Richie might just explode. “And I’d like to be there for it. So yeah, I’m not divorcing my wife for you but I _am_ getting the hell out of Manhattan for you.”

Richie’s breath hitches.

“Wait, wait, wait—you decided that already? I thought we were gonna compare notes in the morning! Are you serious, Eddie? You’re not screwing with me?”

“I don’t know all the details yet,” he adds quickly, muffled against Richie’s shirt. “And I’m not leaving New York until I get everything squared away there, but after that, if you still want—”

“Eddie,” Richie rasps, clinging to him bruisingly. “Eddie, I _always_ want you.”

He nods once, twice in reply. Both times are hard and sharp.

“Then… then after, I’ll be wherever you are. I’m sure on that much.”

“Does this mean we’re gonna be neighbors in LA? Roomies in Chicago?” Richie feels almost ashamed for asking, even if he _is_ dying to know. Eddie’s head dips in thought but Richie, who is too nervous to process anything else, waves the topic away. “That’s probably a talk we should save for later, huh?” His arms are beginning to ache from leaning up on them for so long, so he rolls off Eddie completely and settles himself on his side, in the middle of the bed. “When you’re single. Because as sexy as being a full-time mistress sounds, gotta be honest, I don’t think I’d be cut out for it.”

“You’d be a mister, doofus. And yeah, no, that’s not a thing we’re calling it. But I think you should shut up, right now, if you wanna get laid.”

Richie’s struck speechless as Eddie sits up and reaches for him without hesitance and he’s practically on autopilot when he accepts with literal open arms, clinging instantly. It’s unusual for Eddie to be physically affectionate in a general sense. He’d rarely hug the other Losers, usually choosing Richie above anyone else if ever an occasion occurred, and he’d only touch for longer than three light taps if he was angry enough to shove or worried enough to dress wounds. He never had trouble sitting elbow-to-elbow with any of his friends, but it was only ever Richie he could handle draping himself over willingly.

He’s doing the same thing now, dropping onto Richie’s lap with as much coordination as his thirteen year old self had when climbing onto him within the hammock, but there’s clear intent that comes with age and confidence. He locks his legs behind Richie’s back and holds onto his shoulders with firm purpose.

“Fuckin’ A, Eddie,” he whispers hoarsely, head tilting back by a sharp tug at his hair. He’s in awe, staring at Eddie’s face, knowing he’s the cause of its flush, the center of its fondness, the reason for its determined squint. He can feel himself growing hard under the pressure of Eddie’s ass grinding against him, because _that’s_ a thing that’s suddenly happening. “What’s poking me in the stomach? Couldn’t be your dick, since that fell off and all.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie grunts, rocking down again.

He meets him with a jerky thrust and a jerkier breath. He practically whines as he says, “I’m just _saying_. Who’s the horny teenager now?”

“Okay, we both are, so will you shut up and—”

Richie jumps into the deep end with an open-mouthed kiss, quick and sloppy, hands slipping down to support Eddie’s ass and hoist him closer. Eddie shivers against him, the drag of his clothed dick against Richie’s belly sparking pleasure he expresses through a punchy groan. Richie responds by bucking into him, creating a chain reaction of pushing and pulling, bumping and grinding, a steady stream of curses tapering off into a mumbled mess against Eddie’s jaw and throat.

“Take your fucking shirt off, _please_ ,” Eddie begs, already tugging at the hem.

Richie shucks it off in record time, easily ignoring his customary flare of insecurity when Eddie’s fingertips scrabble at his biceps and pectorals. He gets Eddie’s shirt off next, after a few attempts made challenging by the little shit’s refusal to stop rutting against him even for a second. Richie can’t think, let alone speak, with every single one of his nerve endings spiking each time they slide against each other. They’ve only done this once before but Richie knows, as he holds Eddie’s head between his hands to pepper wet kisses all around his heated face, with Eddie reciprocating the gesture of affection by carding his fingers through Richie’s wild hair, that he’ll never be used to it.

They’re breathing heavy and far past breaking a sweat, and they reach a plateau with their sloppy upright rotations that has them both growing impatient.

“You okay? You good?” Eddie is winded, practically incomprehensible. “You’re not talking, so I’m kinda freaking out.”

“You told me to shut up.” He attaches his lips and tongue to the adam’s apple bobbing so tantalizingly before him. “Can I suck your dick again?”

“ _Jesus, Rich,_ ” he gasps, wiggling against Richie’s thighs. “Is that what you want? You wanna get my cock in your mouth?”

“Holy hell, _yes_.” He must be blushing down to his naval, hearing Eddie talk so explicitly to _him_. He’s about to go full fucking feral.

Adrenaline courses through his veins at the promise of what’s to come and Richie uses it to fuel his strength, lifting Eddie off his lap, straining with the effort to keep a grown man in the air while tipping up onto his knees. The bed creaks when they fall onto it, with Eddie flat on his back and Richie on top of him. He’s hauled in for a desperate kiss while he flings the rest of Eddie’s clothes off, working his erection in one hand as soon as it springs free. They both groan.

“Would you take your pants off? I’m tired of always being the first to get naked.”

“ _Always_ ,” Richie snorts, though he lets go after another stroke so he can do as he’s told. “This is only the second time, Eddie, my dear. Chill.”

“I’ll chill when you take your fucking boxers off, hurry up—”

“You fucking bossy bitch, hold on—”

He nearly falls off the bed trying to kick down his sweats and underwear, glasses sliding from his nose and hitting the floor with a clatter. Eddie twists around to swipe them up and hand them over, settling back down with a pillow to stop his head from hanging off the mattress. 

Richie fumbles to put them on, blinking behind smudges and a crack to memorize all the sweaty lines of Eddie’s body that he proceeds to follow with fingers and lips. Patience has never been a strong point for Richie and it takes a lot for him to focus exclusively on lavishing Eddie with the level of care and devotion he’s worthy of, but he gets where he’s going eventually and is rewarded by the sound of his name flying out of Eddie’s mouth on a crackling loop, the most beautiful broken record.

He does what he did last time, with added confidence and enthusiasm; licking a long stripe up the shaft and suckling the tip, tongue dipping into the leaking slit, hands massaging the base and balls. He bites marks onto Eddie’s thighs when he needs to come up for air and refrains from touching himself for worry of cumming on the spot. He’s aching terribly by the time he manages to sink far enough down for Eddie to nearly hit the back of his throat.

Richie’s yanked off forcefully after not too long, the string of spit that dangles during the departure breaking when he coughs He’s wiping it from his chin when Eddie yelps, “Don’t do that!”

“What, why? You don’t like it?”

“Of course I fucking _like it_ , Richie, that’s what I’m saying! This is gonna be over really fast if you keep it up and I wanna try something else, if that’s—if we can.”

“Yeah, whatever you want, Eddie. I mean, I don’t have lube, so anything _else_ you want.”

Eddie, flushed and wound tight, laughs and crooks a finger to call Richie forward. He crawls like he’s being tugged by a rope until their faces are inches apart again, lets out a quiet when his cock rubs alongside Eddie’s, then again, louder, when Eddie fits them together in one of his soft hands, fingers wrapping tight. He strokes a handful of times before letting go to readjust and Richie has to drop his forehead against Eddie’s collarbone to wince and pant, hips stuttering in search of more friction. There’s not much control like this, but there’s a lot of heat and a lot of pleasure.

“ _Yes, yes, yes_ ,” Eddie gasps, arms draping across Richie’s back, abandoning his idea in favor of this one. “ _Fuck_ , do that again!”

“Oh, so it’s Hump Day, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t even know why I’m still hard right now.”

“It’s ‘cause I’m _hot_ and you _love_ me,” he teases, grinning against Eddie’s chin. It’s not _all_ a joke, though, because he’s still very much baffled by those two huge details. Those thoughts are cut short when Eddie ruts roughly against him again, however, replaced by singing birds and glistening stars. “ _Shit_. Spread your legs for me,” Richie commands. Eddie obeys without protest, sprawling out so Richie can fit between his them with ample room to move.

And _move_ he does, starting with wide, slow undulations to test the waters. When Eddie starts clawing at his back, mouthing at his neck and jaw, Richie starts picking up the pace, using his knees as leverage. He drives into the crease of Eddie’s thigh, riding the curve of his balls while Eddie’s erection gets rubbed roughly between Richie’s torso and his own.

The coil tightens the longer he thrusts, especially when Eddie’s punched out _uh uh uh’s_ turn into mewls against his tongue as they take to sealing the whole ordeal with a lazy, sloppy kiss. He can feel himself losing coordination and control, the mattress shaking back and forth with the rocking of their bodies, the thumping of the headboard against the wall causing Richie’s ears to burn even hotter. He drops from palms to elbows, sucking at Eddie’s throat while trying (and failing) not to moan like a whore as he goes at it faster than he probably should, counting on the copious amounts of pre they’ve been leaking to save them from chafing. It’s too damn good to stop.

Eddie’s warm, smooth skin; his soft, scented hair; the ridges of his solid muscles, the steady power in his hands; the desire in his kisses, the love in his whispers; the way he wants to hold Richie and be held back—it’s so much and not enough, and Richie is chasing it all with everything he has because this _is_ everything he has: below him, around him, staring up at him like he spoke this reality into existence entirely on his own.

As soon as he twists his hips a smidgen to the right, slotting their twitching cocks together side-by-side, Eddie arches with a gasp and shouts. 

_“Fuck!_ Fuck me, Richie, _Richie—_ ”

“Eddie. _Eds_. Shit, Jesus, m’gonna—”

He cums with a tearless sob around the same time Eddie does with a shrill whine. It’s rapturous. Pure and white-hot. And yes, he’s always had a flare for the dramatics, but Richie’s not bullshitting this time, it just really is _that good_.

It scares him a little, how perfect this moment with Eddie is, because it brings about a flicker of doubt that this might not be real. He hadn’t thought that so much about the first time since he hadn’t had any preconceived expectations about it, but now he knows that they both want this (plus _more_ ) as often as possible, and it’s a bit of a hard pill to swallow. Is this another illusion from Pennywise, a trick to zap every ounce of fight out of him? Is he still in the Deadlights, caught in the beams so long he’s been lost to insanity? Or maybe he’s just dead and living a life with Eddie is his personal heaven, a reward for sticking with his friends and dying with dignity, not cowardice.

As he comes back to himself, overly sensitive after rolling with the aftershocks of an impressive orgasm, he feels the puckering on Eddie’s cheek beneath his swollen lips and he feels the jagged stripes on Eddie’s chest beneath his sticky palm—both of them healed faster and better than nature would’ve assured, if allowed—and he feels the emotion bubbling in his throat when he closes his eyes and sees Eddie’s pale, bloody body slipping from his arms. But then he appears again, clean and frantic and _alive_ at the top of the stairs in the Derry Town House, and he’s still there, _here_ , when Richie opens his eyes, flushed pink and panting hotly, and Richie _knows_ it can’t be anything other than real. Because _this_ moment, along with that first time, might be perfect but all the moments before, all the shit he’d waded through to get here, had been a living hell. And the obstacles that were yet to come—well, he doesn’t want to think about that until absolutely necessary, but it’s undeniable proof that Eddie is by Richie’s side and that they’re both meant to have this. Finally.

He’s in a fog when he rolls away and off the bed, stumbling into the bathroom to grab a rag like Eddie had done for him the previous night. He holds in a laugh when Eddie sits up shakily, looking groggy and out of sorts with his hair spiked every which way and their combined jizz dripping down his _abs._ He reaches for the rag with grabby-hands, so Richie tosses it at him without having wiped anything off himself first.

His back is sore, arms even more so, and his legs are practically jello, but damn if he doesn’t feel like a million bucks, stretching his long limbs and yawning widely like a cat bathing in the sun. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know Eddie’s watching him.

“Take a picture, if you want. File it away in the Spank Bank for all your future needs.”

“Yeah, right. As much as I’d _love_ seeing a hairy asshole on my screen every day—”

“Whoa, hey now. Let’s tone it down, man. I’m a little shy for _that_ , I think.”

“I wasn’t being literal, dipshit! You’re disgusting. I can’t even enjoy the fact that I just cummed my brains out ‘cause you’re ruining the mood.”

“You’re welcome. For the cumming thing, not the ruining-the-mood one.”

“Whatever. _Anyway_ , that’d be the worst idea right now. Pictures get saved to the cloud and Myra could—”

“Right.” Richie doesn’t want to hear about that while he’s still riding the high of incredible sex with the man he loves. “I was joking. Can you imagine getting hacked and my fucking nudes getting spread all across the internet? No bueno. If I wanted people seeing me in my birthday suit I would’ve gone into porn. I mean, I definitely have the dick for it.”

Satisfaction spreads up and down his spine like lava when Eddie gives him a lingering once-over.

“You do,” he agrees, sounding miserable about it. “And I’m fucking _pissed._ You talked yourself up so much as a kid I was sure you’d grow up having a pencil dick, but you’re, like, _huge,_ dude. I hate you.”

“Hey, I’d say that’s a gain for you, Eddie, my love.” He thinks he’s sly, sneaking a peek at Eddie’s penis, hanging soft against his thigh, but his line of sight is pretty obvious. Eddie shifts, then; looking away shyly but keeping himself uncovered, allowing Richie to gawk. It’s progress for both of them, so he smiles sheepishly. “You’re not so bad yourself, y’know.”

“I know,” Eddie says with a tiny grin, looking a little self-conscious despite the confident words.

He tosses the partially soiled rag at Richie’s head, who then uses it to scrub the drying residue off himself while Eddie kneels half over the bed to grab their underwear, dropping Richie’s boxers onto his lap before trying to wiggle into his briefs all without getting up. Richie snaps the elastic band against his hips just as Eddie snuggles down beneath his blanket, poking his foot out to nudge Richie’s thigh invitingly. He remains seated at the edge of the bed, however, absently circling the arch of Eddie’s foot with his fingers.

“Did you hear Ben at dinner? Talking about taking Bev out on that boat he owns and apparently _uses?_ ”

“Yeah, who the fuck wants to get on a boat for fun? There were over four thousand accidents last year and the fatality rate went up one-point-nine percent from the year before that, and all this came straight from the Coast Guard! I hope Ben has life jackets on board ‘cause eighty-five percent of victims who drowned weren’t wearing them, and Bev should know alcohol is a major contributing factor in fatal boating accidents, and, oh yeah, supposedly Scopalamine patches are way more effective for motion sickness than Meclizine—”

“Why the hell do you know so much about boats? And drugs for motion sickness? You don’t even fly.”

“Manhattan’s an island, Richie! It’s fucking surrounded by water! I’ve been on ferry rides before and I’m not an idiot, so I do my research. Also, I got fucking sea sick the first time I went off land and I puked all over my shoes, which were Gucci, so a total waste of money—”

“Wait, wait, you have _Gucci_ shoes?” Richie can’t believe his ears. “Oh, _man_. I might be a hack but you’re a total sell-out!”

“Shut up! It was an impulse purchase and I’ve regretted it ever since—”

“Sure, sure. You could’ve taken them back, but whatever. Look we’re getting off track. I didn’t really wanna talk about Ben and Bev’s future boat adventures.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

“I was just—they’re are psyched about their plans… it got everyone talking. Bill has a movie to finish and a book to start, Mike’s ready to pack up and fuck off to Florida, Stan’s got a vacation coming around, you’ve got a lot of _adult_ things to sort through, and I’m gonna be brainstorming ‘til my head explodes. It seems like tomorrow might be kind of a last hurrah for the Losers. Am I the only one thinking this?”

“I know why you’re saying that,” Eddie says understandingly, moving his foot out of Richie’s hand to press against his ribcage, a little gesture that says _hey, I’m still here_ , “but this isn’t gonna be a _last_ anything, Rich. And did you know there’s this little thing called video chatting where you can call someone and not just hear their voice but also see their face on your screen? It’s incredible. A marvel of modern technology.”

“You’re wasted as a risk assessor, Eds.”

“Risk _analyst_ _._ ”

“You should quit your joyless job and become my partner in comedy crime.”

“Your comedy truly _is_ a crime, Rich, so no thanks. But I was thinking…” Eddie flattens his mouth and messes with his hair in a halfhearted attempt to smooth it out. Richie watches him, sitting still and silent to let him know he’s listening because Eddie’s forehead has gone all wrinkly and his brows have turned down and both of those things have always been an indication of worry. “Bev thought I’d be a doctor, which doesn’t make sense because I hate needles and germs and touching strangers—and hospitals, clinics, practices in general, they’re full of those things. So I thought it was weird that she figured I would’ve become a doctor, especially after all the shit my mom put me through, but then I started remembering, right? And as much as I complained about patching all you idiots up or making sure you didn’t die from the flu, _Richie_ , because you never dressed properly in the fucking _winter_ , I kind of… liked it? Even when I was scared, I still did anything you or Bill or Stan did, and I felt useful or—or vindicated when you guys needed me. And I just think, like, maybe she wasn’t so far off after all. Maybe I _would’ve_ been a doctor if I had one of you in my corner.”

“Is that what you wanna do?” Richie wonders. He tries to sound neutral, to let Eddie decide this all on his own, but he’s pretty damn thrilled and his smile must reflect that. “Become a certified Doctor K?”

“I dunno. If I wasn’t so fucking old, sure. I don’t think I could stand wasting another ten years of my life just trying to through medical school now, though.”

“If you think about it like that, then yeah, you’re not gonna want to do it, but if you think about it as an investment, in yourself and your future and your fucking _happiness_ , then it might be worth trying. You’re not even that old, you could easily pass for thirty.”

“I’m trying to be realistic,” Eddie mumbles.The corners of his mouth have loosened considerably. “But I wanted your opinion. I could think about it more, I guess. Way later. We still have to talk about _us_ tomorrow.”

“ _Us_ ,” Richie repeats dopily. “Are we still doing the pros and cons thing? ‘Cause, honestly, you said you’d follow me after all your New York biz is taken care of and that’s all I care about. Assuming we’ll be, y’know…” His eyebrows do a weird up and down motion that he has no control over and he rolls his wrists through the air to emphasize a label he knows they don’t have yet, but might some day soon. “A thing.”

“A thing?”

“Or whatever.”

Trying to play it cool when he’s sweating imaginary bullets earns him an endearingly pissy eye-roll from Eddie, whose head is barely peeking out from the top of his blanket. His hair is still ruffled and the careless sweep of it makes Richie a little lightheaded.

“Lover,” Richie blurts as soon as the thought comes to him. Eddie’s big eyes grow somehow wider. “Remember when you wrote that on your cast?”

“ _I_ didn’t write it. Greta Keene put Loser across the whole thing and I changed the S to a V, that’s all.”

“Which was completely unnecessary, if you ask me. We literally called _ourselves_ losers. You were just being _cute, cute, cute!_ ”

He reaches over and pinch Eddie’s cheek, right below the dimpled scar.

“I wasn’t being _cute_ , fuckface!” He slaps Richie’s hand away stingingly, which only serves to make Richie shake with laughter. “I was trying to regain some dignity!”

“You can’t call me fuckface until you _actually_ fuck my face.”

“ _Richie!”_

“I’m the one who’s been doing all the work! And I’m just saying, by definition we’re _lovers_ and we both know it.” He blushes a little but does his best to ignore it. A light bulb flicks on dimly at the forefront of his hazy, sleepy brain. “Oh, _dude!_ That’s totally what you should get tattooed! Just like—a giant _Loser_ with a V, for nostalgia’s sake. Make it a tramp stamp! I’m such a fucking genius, Eddie. Don’t know how you survived without me for so long.”

He waits with bated breath for Eddie to deliver a zinger, to shut him down with a punchline about his absurdness, his stupidity, before turning over to grumble into his pillow until sleep takes him. Richie fiddles with his glasses, grin still in place, but Eddie doesn’t say a word. He studies him instead, scrutinizes every inch of Richie’s face with a tilted head and squared jaw. And _uh oh_ is the only thought Richie can think because he _knows_ that look, has seen it countless times whenever someone dared to tell Eddie he couldn’t do something or, worse, that he didn’t _have to._

_“_ It’s not a bad idea,” Eddie tells him loftily. Richie knows he means business. “Your placement is absolute shit, but the idea itself… huh.”

Richie is swiftly bombarded with images of Eddie’s light skin marred by a small patch of dark ink, and it’s such a minor thing to get flustered about but Richie can’t control himself. He can’t even hide it, now that Eddie knows what signs to look for, as intimate as they’ve been during this journey of a lifetime. He smirks like a smug bastard as he relaxes again, enjoying his not-so-new ability to effortlessly fluster Richie.

Switching the light off before Eddie can ask him to do it, he crawls over next to him and flops onto his side, squinting in the dark as Eddie crowds in close behind him. The arm draped over his waist is a comforting weight, the little puffs of air tickling his nape a sweet reminder of what he has. They’ve got a lot to discuss come daylight, but he’s confident that all the diverging paths they’ll soon be taking will eventually become a single road leading to the same destination, where they’ll always meet, come what may. Nothing’s going to stop them this time.

“Hey, Rich?”Eddie whispers. “Did you really carve our initials on the Kissing Bridge?”

“Yeah.” He swallows harshly, reminding himself that this is okay to talk about now. No more hiding. “Why would I lie about that?”

“I don’t know. You wouldn’t, I guess, I just—I’m having a hard time picturing it. You’re sure it was that same summer?”

“Yep, 1989 was a big year for me. I think I was more afraid taking a knife to that bridge than I was when I swung a baseball bat at the clown’s head.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“Story of our lives, right?” He traces the knuckles of Eddie’s hand where it folds into his stomach. “We do what we have to, even when it’s scary or hard. Like Bill looking for Georgie or Beverly kicking our asses into gear or you standing up to your mom. R plus E… that was something I had to do, Eddie. It was just for me, but I had to.”

Richie brings his legs up in a sort of fetal position. He closes his eyes and sighs when Eddie’s nose presses against the knob of his spine.

“It wasn’t just for you,” he says, rough and quiet, rustling the sheets. “And, um, this— _this_ isn’t just for me.”

“What?”

“Here, gimme your hand.” Richie presents his palm to Eddie instantly, startling when he feels something cool and smooth placed into the center. Locking his fist over it, the round shape becomes obvious. His heart to stutter in giddy surprise. “I’ll get rid of it later, just stick it on the table for now, but I’m saying—” There’s a pause, a breathy laugh. “What you did was stupid and brave and I know you did it for yourself but you really did it for _us_ , too. So, I figure it’s my turn, right? I mean, the human embodiment of a middle-aged disaster taking off his wedding ring isn’t anywhere close to some thirteen year old idiot vandalizing public property with our fucking _initials_ , but it’s all I can do right now, symbolically speaking. And I’m super fucking late with it, which I’m sorry about—”

“It’s okay, Eddie,” Richie says, truly meaning it. He ignores the way the ring spins and clatters against the table when he tosses it down. “You don’t owe me an explanation, you don’t owe me _anything,_ but thanks. For—for saying that and for, uh… yeah. Thank you. Is it weird if I say that?”

“I dunno know. Probably. But I don’t care.” His warm cheek presses between Richie’s shoulder blades. “I love you. And I love not feeling like I’m gonna be sick every time I say it.”

“Aww,” Richie coos, touched despite the phrasing. “The thought of me doesn’t make you sick anymore? And they say romance is dead.”

“Well—you know what I mean!”

“You’re gonna give me a big head, saying such sweet things to me all the time.”

“Your head’s big enough already,” he grumbles, pulling Richie closer. Warmth spreads from his hairline to his toes. “Go to sleep.”

“Whatever you say,” he says through a jaw cracking yawn. “G’night. Sleep tight.”

Eddie grumbles something about kicking Richie in the ass if he so much as mentions bed bugs again, but he’s powering down before he can think of anything else, allowing himself the ease of drifting with a smile that doesn’t fade until long after he’s under. Eddie’s bare hand never leaves his hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it, folks! They've overcome their stupidity and are in it to win it now! They deserve a round of applause and so do all of you for sticking with me. I hope it was all worth it. I really appreciate the feedback I've gotten so far. Feel free to let me know what you think about this pretty big chapter, too!
> 
> Again, not a smut writer but it's what they /deserve./ 
> 
> I haven't been getting much writing done lately since I've mostly been playing Sims 4 again, but since there are only 3 (long) chapters left I should mention that I have 3 other fics that are very firmly in the WIP stage. I've put them on hold to edit and post this story, but I'm fairly certain 2 out of 3 of those fics with be finished at some point in the near future. (The plans I made for the other fic might be too big for me to accomplish after this monster, so we'll see). However, I also have a few ideas for potential oneshots that would take place in this fics universe, at different points after the final chapter. Just little add-ons since I love this fic and have spent so much time writing it. If anyone is interested in small fics set in this same universe, let me know! I have the basic ideas already, I would just need to set time aside to write them. But I already have other WIPs so I'm getting ahead of myself lolol.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! We've reached the climax but I hope you're still excited for the rest of what's to come. <3


	11. This Isn't Goodbye

The lucky seven have had an abundance of rotten luck in life. They’d been dealt cards, again and again and again, that seemed rigged to fail, which Richie supposes is par for the course when you literally call yourselves _losers_. It’d started long before that terrifying Derry summer in 1989, most likely the day the first of them was born, their fates crafted by unimaginable forces that not a single one of them could understand, even now. 

There had never been anything overtly _wrong_ with Big Bill. He’d been a handsome boy, full of grand schemes and strong convictions, made fun of for a stutter and pitied because of a tragedy. Bill’s biggest downfall had simply been his shyness around strangers, when it came down to it, and perhaps some misplaced emotions. He’d always felt so _much_ , no matter the situation, which sometimes blinded him to problems outside his own.

Richie had been in a similar boat for most of his adolescence, on the cusp of being _almost_ normal—if not for the few key factors that allowed others to shun him early on. His trash mouth, for one thing, often got people laughing _at_ him rather than _with_ him, and his severely poor eyesight left him with unflatteringly large glasses that magnified his eyes a bewildering amount, not to mention the crookedness of his teeth that seemed to take center stage with how often his lips flapped. The way he dressed (always in old, flashy clothes that rarely ever matched) and his proclivity to hyperfixate on any given interest for an annoying amount of time certainly never won him any favors, either. But it hadn’t been until age twelve, when Bowers and the older kids started looking at his friendships with Bill and Stan, and especially with Eddie, that things really nosedived for him; where he’d been struck down and forever marked by the burgeoning sexuality he first struggled to understand and then later struggled to keep hidden.

Eddie and Stan, on the other hand, were never apologetic about being themselves. They never asked for attention the way Richie did—wilted under it, even, when paid by unwelcome eyes, in comparison to Bill’s careful composure—but the traits that made them unique never brought them shame beneath the initial embarrassment of being teased. 

All of Derry knew Stanley Uris was a Jew and half the population seemed to take offence to that, just as they seemed to take offence to his overbearing intelligence, which no amount of bullying or berating could convince him to downplay. He’d correct teachers if they said something wrong, rolled his eyes at other students when he thought they were being too stupid to handle. He wiped off each desk he needed to use before sitting down, spent time that he should’ve used studying the Torah on rifling through bird encyclopedias instead, and willingly hung out with three other outcasts when he could have been making nice with the local troop of Boy Scouts. 

Eddie wore the hell out of his pastel polos, cartoon tees, tiny bright shorts, and overstuffed fanny packs. He let his watch beep in class where everyone could hear, swallowed pills dry in the middle of scribbling equations and bullshitting essays, ranted loudly about germs in the middle of the cafeteria and talked shit under his breath about anyone who looked at him funny whenever he had a note that barred him from racing track or playing dodgeball in gym. He’d be the first to complain about something dangerous but far from the last when it came down to participating. Short, small, and perceived as delicate, Eddie’s contradictions made him perhaps the most confusing mess, as well as the best.

Ben was quiet enough to fly under the radar, sweet enough to be thought of as weak, large enough to be made a target. He’d been new, too, on top of everything, with a secret love for boy bands and a morbid curiosity for history, not to mention a not-so-private yearning for a girl the whole school liked to whisper about. A bad combination, as far as most other kids were concerned. He’d had it rough, without a doubt, but so had Beverly, who Richie at one point foolishly believed those rumors about. She’d turned out to be cool and caring, nothing at all like what Henry and Greta would try to claim. It was an undeserved reputation that kept her on the outside looking in with a creep of a father that only served to make things worse. She’d never felt like a loser when she was with her friends and that made her the biggest loser of them all, a title she wore proudly.

Mike had been similarly stuck on the outside—literally, in terms of location, home-schooled at the edge of town—but mostly due to being black in a racist shithole, along with the heaviness that surrounded the murder of his parents. Being kind, smart, tough, and loyal hadn’t meant anything to anyone in Derry until he’d become the seventh member of their group, a big gain for the six others that came to adore him.

They’d all been marked since the beginning. Cursed, if not for the way each event brought them together, where they were always meant to be. Richie vividly remembers the summer before high school, not just for the horror ( _missing kids, gray water, crackhead house on Neibolt, killer alien clown_ ) but for much, much more.

Bill: shouting of _Hi-Ho Silver_ while speeding down the road, turning red and throwing a punch, offering to sacrifice himself for his friends, cutting each of their palms in a sobering oath.

Eddie: high-pitched voice following their every step and word, hands dragging him into a photobooth and offering him an ice cream at the Fourth of July parade, bared legs snug against his body in the hammock, socked foot prodding his face, hands held gently and an arm wrapping Richie in a hug offered to no one else. 

Stan: splashing around at the quarry, poking curiously through Ben’s bedroom, smiling and handing out shower caps to protect against spiders, cleaning Richie’s bedroom to his extremely high standards, a confidently badass Bar Mitzvah speech shocking the whole gathering. 

Ben: perfecting their clubhouse sanctuary bit by bit, inviting them over to research the bizarre occurencea they’d fallen into, kissing Beverly to save her from certain doom, becoming flustered during a quick turn of Twister, stuffing a signature into his wallet and never looking back.

Beverly: a killer jump off the quarry’s cliff, bright laughter during endless games of chicken, perfect aim in an apocalyptic rock fight, shared cigarettes at the barrens, insurmountable courage in the face of every danger imaginable.

Mike: fighting against a spooky projector in Bill’s dark garage, gently lifting Eddie into the basket of his bike, gaininf g strength against Bowers and resourcefulness against It, treating them to milkshakes at a diner, bathing himself in the dirt of Derry so no one else would have to.

Richie: fears haunting him like shadows in a morning crowd, a spotlight shining over his true colors alone in the dark. Richie: his feelings for Eddie growing and festering and erupting as annoying jabs and frequent calls, initials etched carefully into wood and left behind as a reminder to come home to. Richie: having the worst and best time of his life with a _family_ he’d found and made for himself. Richie: ending that season feeling higher than the clouds—something he hadn’t experienced again until entering the Town House after defeating the final Big Bad, broken beyond belief, only to find Eddie once more, alive and warm and waiting.

Going forward had been hard back then, with all of his friends leaving one by one. They’d forgotten each other and everything they’d learned, and that old fearful part of Richie thinks it might happen again, once they go their separate ways. But it can’t, it _won’t_ , because it’s over. Going forward now might be even harder, on the back of how much they’ve endured, and Richie wouldn’t be able to take losing it all a second time. He hopes beyond hope he won’t have to.

 _That_ is what this meeting is supposed to be about, though Richie hasn’t exactly been listening, too busy riding on fumes after an exhaustingly busy morning. About an hour after waking (and quickly showering, slipping into all the clothing he'd borrowed thus far) he’d gone to visit the optician Eddie had preemptively contacted for him, picking up a pair of glasses not too dissimilar to the style he'd been wearing for the past few years. It’d been his own idea to stop off at the mall afterward—too little too late, sure, but at least he’d have some kind of memento to take back to Chicago… other than extreme trauma, of course. Bev had jumped at the chance to join his mission while Eddie, Mike, Bill, and Ben took advantage of the washer-dryer combo set within the Uris home. Shopping had taken much longer than Richie was used to, but spending time with Bev was a pretty nice treat. Sort of.

 _“Good talk yesterday?”_ she’d asked breezily, perusing a rack of tastefully patterned shirts. _“You were gone for a while. Stan thought you two either killed each other or hijacked his car to elope.”_

_“Stan’s a dipshit. And Eddie’s already married, remember?"_

_“Not for much longer.”_ She'd grinned, the perfect amount of mischievous to make him squirm. _“What about this?”_ In her hands had been a navy button-down, a little more fitted than what Richie usually went for, with white floral accents on the collar, breast pocket, and rolled sleeves. It seemed more like something he’d wear professionally rather than personally, but he’d taken it from her with a closed-lip smile when she shook it and said: _“You look good in blue.”_ She moved a few tables down after that, handing him a short-sleeved yellow ombre shirt without explanation. _“And what about last night? Any more good talks then? Or did you finally find a better use for that trash mouth?”_

He laughed so loudly that he’d gotten glared at by a snooty old woman and a guy with a douchey pompadour.

_“Someone’s presumptuous this morning."_

_“Richie, I saw Eddie in the hall, without a shirt—”_

_“Hey, you’ve already got Ben, back off!”_

_“And it looked like he got attacked by leeches.”_

She’d giggled behind her hands when his cheeks caught fire, probably becoming the same shade as her hair. His brilliant reply was nothing more than a scoff. A guffaw.

_“Okay, your neck doesn't look much better, to be fair.”_

He’d paid for some weird cargo style crop pants just to spite her, smiling smugly when she dropped the topic completely. The coy side-eyes never truly went away, however. 

A group breakfast at the nearest IHop had followed that little outing, and there they'd stayed until a harried manager, icy in their politeness, asked them all to leave after one too many disruptions. Eddie, fired up from all the bantering ( _flirting,_ Ben had dubbed it), bodily dragged Richie over toward the emptiest edge of a sprawling park full of kids and couples and dogs, one of which had been a prancing Pomeranian that they’d both watched suspiciously, where he'd told him how _embarrassing_ he was before proceeding to grab his hand to lock their fingers, showing Richie once again the _true_ meaning of life. 

(He'd squared his shoulders as they walked, embodying the bravery he was always so timid to tap into, making Richie jealous and proud and _way_ too turned on for such a public location.)

The long-awaited talk that followed on the park bench was fairly anticlimactic, in the end— _not_ for lack of desire or excitement or happiness. They’d been hashing bits and pieces out each time they came together, though they couldn’t exactly set things in stone with all the details Eddie still needed to iron out, and timing remained one of the biggest pains in their asses, but facts were facts and all the conclusions they’d drawn stemmed entirely from how far they knew they’d be willing to go for this. For _them_.

Eddie was getting a divorce, there were no two ways about it, and that very important step happened to be first in a long line of them. He’d use however long the process took to extricate himself from the life he’d built in New York by moving (temporarily) into an apartment of his own, where he’d decide what career he ultimately wanted to pursue and how he would go about doing it, and then he’d just wait until he could join Richie in his (soon to be _their_ ) Chicago bungalow.

He’d felt bad that Eddie was the one doing all the work, sacrificing everything on top of what he'd already given, and Richie had even tried apologizing in a twitchy, roundabout way. But Eddie wouldn’t hear it, insisting that being in control of his own future was the best thing for him at this stage and that Richie would have his hands full once Eddie showed up on his doorstep with a fuckload of concepts and carry-ons.

Eddie had told Richie to focus on himself, as well. Told him to work on his new material, to get some actual rest when he sleeps, to take up a healthy hobby that could help him relax (like hiking or cooking or fucking _yoga_ ), to message him or one of the Losers or a reputable therapist if ever he started spiraling.

The discussion about what to label themselves hadn’t gone as smoothly, mostly due to hesitance above all else. Their _RichieAndEddie_ dynamic hadn’t changed much since the big confession and subsequent dick bumping, which was a huge relief. They still bickered like children, rubbing elbows and shouting insults, and the basis of their friendship hadn’t suffered in the slightest by the aspects of intimacy they’d recently folded in, it’s just... fear is a hard emotion to shake when you’ve been chained to it for so long.

But if it’s one thing they’ve learned—as Losers, as individuals, as a pair—it’s that love, the strongest feeling in the world, can overcome _anything_. What they call themselves won’t matter, so long as they’re together. As a couple. _Romantically_. 

Hell, Richie had felt faint for ten straight minutes after Eddie shyly asked if kissing behind the privacy of the fountain was something they could do. Needless to say, they’d left the park a little more rumpled than when they’d arrived.

They’re seated around Stan’s patio for this meeting, enjoying barbecue, wine, and constant chatter. Richie’s been zoned out for a while, simply enjoying the revelry with a welcomed sense of calm. He perks up shaken from his reverie, when Bill clears his throat, wipes his mouth, and stands to look them over.

“This is going to be our last night together for a while. Maybe until Thanksgiving, if we can find some free time by then. But most of us will be leaving tomorrow, so… this is our last night as a group, for now. Life will go on and everything we knew before we set foot back in Derry’s city limits will be right where we left it. But us, as people? We’ll go back irrevocably different. Changed for the better, shaped by the worst. We’ve b-b-been here before, haven’t we?” Bill offers a watery smile to the six that surround him, falling back momentarily into the stutter he’d gained and lost, then nods a little sheepishly to Audra and Patty as they look on. “The only difference is that this time, our traumas, our f-fears, our regrets; here and now, it all ends. And you know, the thing about endings, even the really shitty ones—” He meets each of their gazes pointedly, is that... they just mean something _else_ is about to begin. A whole new chapter in a brand new book, and this one is finally _ours_.

“There’s a, uh, a quote from Fitzgerald I’d like to read. It’s exactly what we need right now. A sort of punctuation to all we’ve been through and a fresh page for everything our futures hold.” Bill pulls a pair of readers off the collar of his shirt, sets them on the tip of his nose, and brings out his phone. Richie hides a grin against his knuckles when Eddie tucks his chin to his sternum and lifts his brows high. “ _For what it’s worth_ ,” Bill begins to recite, “ _it’s never too late, or in my case too early, to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit. Start whenever you want. You can change or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you’ve never felt before. I hope you meet people who have a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of, and if you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start over again._ ” 

Richie’s chest stutters with a humorless, silent laugh. His arms fold across his stomach to act as a barrier. He wishes he’d worn a jacket, despite the afternoon heat; wishes he had some pockets to shove his hands into, another layer of fabric to hide behind because old habits die hard and he’s feeling awfully exposed beneath the flitting gazes of his fellow emotional wrecks. But he’s been cracked open a million times since answering Mike’s call and he’d bet a good chunk of cash that he’ll be cracked open a million and one more after going back home with the numbers of Eddie, Bill, Stan, Bev, Mike, and Bev saved in his phone. And that, he thinks, is _his_ version of starting over. Being able to look at their names and know who they are, know how much he loves them, how much _they_ love _him_.

He glances at Mike, who’s staring at Bill with abject admiration; at Stan, who’s rubbing Patricia’s shoulders and smiling serenely; at Beverly, who looks over her shoulder to wink at Richie with sparkling eyes; at Ben, who wraps an arm sweetly around Beverly’s waist and sighs contentedly; at Bill, who takes off his readers and regards his audience fondly; at Eddie, who stares down at the hands resting in his lap, rubbing at the patch of lighter skin on his ring finger like he could erase the line of it with sheer force of will. Richie looks at his own hands, pale and shaking but free of blood, of marks. He misses the scar that had adorned his palm for twenty-seven years just as much as he’s happy to have it gone, expunged from his body along with the debt it’d represented.

He recalls the way his hands had felt so long ago, small and clumsy and perpetually dirt-stained. Sticky from melted ice cream, sweaty from summer heat; twitchy against the swell of Eddie’s calf, strained against the handle of a bat; shaky around a crumpled sheet of paper adorned with his face, steady around thin fingers jutting from a scrawled upon cast; rough from circling the handlebars of his bike, splintered from smoothing out the edges of two letters and a sign.

He recalls the way his hands had felt hours and days prior, big and cautious and unreasonably soft. Warmed by thick blood, cooled by murky water; pained around a vintage arcade token, gentle around the curve of a bandaged cheek; strong against the fight of a piercing spidery leg, delicate against the hard lines of Eddie’s slick, sensitive body; dry from the handle of an ancient axe held heavy in his grip, clammy from dancing like an idiot in the center of Stan’s living room.

Good times or bad, _this_ is his life. Believe it or not, Richie wouldn’t change it for anything.

“Stanley once asked if we’d all still be friends once we grew to be as old as out parents,” Bill says after a beat. “We thought we knew, without a doubt, that we would be. And, well, we might’ve hit a couple snags along the way, but I think we had the right answer. Because even when we were apart, we were still together, somewhere deep down. Always. And that won't ever change. So, this isn’t goodbye. Not now and not tomorrow. It’s ' _see you later_.' It’s ' _call me, anytime_.' It’s _'I love you.'_ All of you.”

Audra stands when Bill dabs at his nose, pulling him into a crushing hug that showcases a closeness they never got to witness the start of. Richie would’ve liked being there to see how they met and got together, would’ve liked being at the wedding to toast and roast Bill into a whole new week. He can ask about it some time, though, and he can ask about Stan and Patricia’s special day too. He can look at pictures, laugh at stories. Richie is comforted by the knowledge that he’ll at least be around for Ben and Beverly’s inevitable union—no longer than five years out, he’d wager. Mikey might even have a little _somethin’ somethin’_ by then, as big of a catch as he is. Whatever he wants, he deserves it. 

Yet, all Richie really knows is that he’s selfishly relieved he hadn’t been around to watch Eddie stand at the end of an aisle, waiting for a woman who didn’t deserve him and never would. He doesn’t want to think about how it might not have happened if Richie had been there, to either stop it or (unrealistically) take her place, because dwelling on all the things that could have been, if not for that fucking clown, will only serve to drop him into an early grave.

Instead he looks to Eddie, who looks back at him with a dimpled smile, and raises a hand to pat him on the shoulder, leaving his fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt for several seconds too long, but nobody says a word, nobody cares, they’re not even looking. It makes him brave enough to tilt his hand a smidgen to rest against Eddie’s neck, thumb brushing the steady thump of his pulse ever so briefly before pulling away to face Bill’s side of the table again.

“Well said,” Stan compliments, holding his glass up, half-full of wine. He draws up to his full height, spine as straight as a board. “If it’s one thing I _know_ we won’t forget again, it’s that we’re Losers,” he says clearly, voice pitched low, scanning each face he’d held so dear like he might forget the second he looks away, “and we always will be.”

Ben lifts his own glass and smiles crookedly, calling out: “Hear, hear!” Bev repeats it, then Mike, then Richie. He elbows Eddie, gets him to mumble it out with far less enthusiasm, though the smile he fails to hide says it all. Bill, with Audra tucked against his side, fresh tears drying on his cheeks, grins and bows playfully.

Richie chugs the rest of his drink after tossing a napkin at Bill’s head and stops there, refusing a refill. He’s shoving his glass to the side, leaning over Eddie’s plate to ask Patricia if there’s Coke or lemonade inside, when Mike stands slowly, a book clutched to his chest. A piece of paper slants above the pages.

“I, uh, I have something I think you'd—I think you guys would like to see. Patty and Audra, too. It’s…” Mike inhales, a short burst of air filling his lungs, feeding his strength. “It used to hang in the clubhouse and it stayed there until the last of you left, until it was just me. I took it home then, held onto it for safekeeping. Looked at it everyday just to remind myself what the hell I was still doing in that curse of a place.”

He pulls the bookmark from where it rests, holding it as far out in front as the length of his arm will allow. Bev, who’s folded herself across the table to see what’s on the other side of the white rectangle, claps a hand over her mouth. Ben smiles from ear to ear. Bill pulls Audra closer, leaning into Mike’s side like he can’t stand on his own. Stan gets out of his chair with Patty in tow and Richie catches the exact moment his expression changes from intrigue to pure delight.

There are scribbled words on the back of the strip. From where he sits he can make out July 1989. And then it dawns on him, what everyone’s getting so teary over. Richie shoves away from the table, hand grazing Eddie’s head in passing, stumbling into Mike on his quest to get closer. A flood of emotion hits him as he regards the image in awe.

Four boxes are stacked over each other, each one holding seven young faces in a variety of goofy poses. Richie and Eddie are on one side, pressed tight against the wall, first into the booth, with Mike and Stan balancing precariously in the middle. Ben, Bev, and Bill had managed to squeeze in on the other side, blocking each other in some shots, although their twinkling eyes always remain visible. The memory of doing this had come back to him rather quickly, but he’d been clueless of the end result up until now. Staring at the fading, colorless photos, with their features near washed-out from the camera’s overexposure, mapping every grainy smile (and, in Eddie’s case, every exaggerated twist of his lips and brows), Richie’s composure begins to slip.

He grazes the tip of his index finger across the semi-glossy finish, feeling where it’s become worn in spots, and bites the inside of his cheek when a firm hand settles on his arm, nudging him just enough to allow for another body to enter the huddle.

Richie looks down at Eddie’s head with bleary eyes, heart plunging into his gut as he’s hit with sensory overload; how it feels to be tucked between Eddie and Stan now (sentimental, overjoyed, grateful), both of them much bigger and older than they used to be, and how it felt to be tucked between Eddie and Stan before (safe, giddy, invincible), both of them guilless and soft with pointy edges, two people who knew Richie best.

“Holy shit,” Eddie whispers reverently.

“We were some adorable little fuckers, weren’t we?” Richie says, swallowing the thickness in his throat when Bill slaps him on the chest, over his heart. Bev clings to Mike’s arm and laughs.

“We still are,” Ben declares, rocking onto his toes to pull Eddie and Stan into playful headlocks. “Just a little bit taller. And maybe a little more gray.”

“Speak for yourself, New Kid.”

Richie squeezes Ben’s jaw for emphasis, scratching at the short silvery hairs there like he would a dog, ruffling the streaked strands on top of Bill’s head as well. He wisely chooses not to say anything about the taller part, considering Eddie, Bill, and Bev never really grew much past munchkin status. Eddie elbows him in the ribs regardless, like he knew the insult was buzzing on the tip of his tongue. Richie bumps their hips together and jerks his thumb backwards, snickering at the way Patty coos over Young Stan’s baby fat and bouncy curls.

“Look at the size of your glasses,” Eddie huffs, yanking the picture out of Mike’s grasp. There’s a chorus of protests at the image being blocked from view, but Eddie ignores them all in favor of staring slack-jawed at a special piece of their past. “God, I forgot how huge your eyes used to look. And your mouth. Guess you grew into both.” He squints at Richie’s lips, just to make sure, only tearing his gaze away when Richie pokes his tongue out. “And Bill, dude, your hair looked so fucking dumb. How'd we never notice?”

“What! No, Eds, come on!”

“Yeah, we couldn’t all have mommy gel our hair into perfection, man,” Richie quips, not so much interested in defending Bill’s honor as he is pushing Eddie into overdrive.

“At least I fucking _washed_ my hair, you greasy motherfucker—”

They fall into each other as a group like they used to, shouting and shrieking and flailing about. They’re a mess of noise and motion, and they pass the photo around unthinkingly, sparing it adoring glances every few minutes. Stan holds onto it for the longest amount of time, going quiet as he stares and stares and stares.

“Mike," he says once the chatter dies down, "I’d like a copy of this."

Richie nods and so does Eddie, and it’s Bev that states: “We all would. Please.”

“I’ll use the machine at the library before I pack up for good. So keep an eye on your snail mail once you get home.”

“Thanks, Mikey.” Bill draws him into a one-armed hug as Stan excuses himself to rush into his house. Richie shrugs when Ben looks to him unquestioningly. “Seriously, thank you. For everything.”

The rest of them join in with murmurs of assent, freed from all the pain and lies that had stemmed from Mike’s actions. He’d done the best he could with what he had, stayed when no one else thought to, fulfilling a promise that hadn’t even been of his own making. He guided them to victory with blood, sweat, and tears.

Richie wishes he could’ve remembered what Mike never forgot—of course he does, he always will—but he understands the burden of living life with all your memories and none of your friends. He’d seen the defeat in his posture, the first twinges of hysteria in his eyes. Being lonely and not knowing why, or being lonely and not being able to do anything about it… he’s not sure who had it worse, so he flings himself at Mike’s back to lock him into a hug that earns him a gruff giggle-snort and a pat of affection.

That’s when Stan exits the house with a Canon in hand, one of those oversized zoom lenses attached to the front. He quirks a brow when everyone freezes to gawk.

“Are we stuck in the 80s? I haven’t caught any of you Losers using the cameras on your phones this whole time. That’s a thing they have, you know.” He smirks and steps farther out into the yard, passing a small swimming pool to stand beneath a giant tree teeming with dangling bird feeders. “We’ve been busy making new memories, I thought it might be nice to capture a few of them. For when we need a reason to smile or want a moment to reminisce. So, who’s up for an impromptu photoshoot? I know you celebrity halfwits are always game.”

There’s an _ouch_ from Bill, a _hey_ from Bev, a downtrodden _aww_ from Ben. Richie says he’ll do it for fifty bucks, a quarter of his usual fee, and gets a reprimanding punch in the shoulder from Mike the Humble Librarian. Eddie sticks his nose in the air smugly, smirking about not being lumped in with the others. Richie wants to kiss the shit out of him in front of everyone.

“I’ve been to a lot of shoots. I could get behind the camera, if you want," Audra offers. 

Patty beams, holding out the camera she takes from her husband.

“Yeah, that’d be great! Let me show you some of the settings we like to use, especially with the lighting out here…”

The two women spend a few minutes tapping buttons and adjusting the lens, and then Audra shades her eyes with her hand and starts barking orders at them as Patty bounces on her toes.

They want Ben in the middle, Bill and Mike on his right with Richie and Stan on his left, for the first pose. Bev is asked to wrap an arm around Ben’s neck, Bill and Mike holding her legs, and Eddie is requested to jump on Richie’s back the way he had done when they were dancing. His face looks suspiciously pink, which he tries to cover by grumbling, but he hops on anyway and trusts Richie to not let go. He shrieks when Richie pretends to drop him. Stan, on the other hand, doesn’t have to do anything except stand next to Richie and hold the photostrip against his chest so it remains in frame. The two fingers he sneaks up behind Eddie’s head to simulate bunny ears is a classic that everyone approves—even _Eddie_ , who calls it unoriginal but does nothing to swat the hand away.

Patty coos about how handsome her Stanley looks while Audra begs Bill to stop slouching, and Eddie tugs absently at Richie’s hair in between clicks of the camera. They’re forced to switch poses when Mike mumbles something Richie doesn’t hear because Bev laughs so hard Ben nearly drops her. Someone says something about sitting on the grass, prompting Richie to make a joke about Bev laying in front of them like Molly Ringwald, and Audra’s eyes go wide as she tells them all to position themselves to match poster.l for _The Breakfast Club_ , her favorite movie. Bill insists there are too many people to get it just right and Richie mumbles about how fucking stupid this all is, but Audra The Dictator won't be swayed so they grin and bear it and refrain from smacking each other in the face during the shuffle. 

They do a few more silly poses like that as the afternoon wears on, some working better than others, before ending in a curved line. Mike, Stan, Ben, Bev, Bill, Richie, and Eddie stand , in that order, with their arms hooked together, semi-awkward smiles overtaking their expressions. It reminds him of the circle they’d made as kids, with cuts on their palms and the weight of the world on their shoulders. But they’re free now; of Derry, of the clown, of responsibilities that never should have been theirs to begin with. It feels better than good to be here now.

They snap one final photo with the aid of a tripod so Audra and Patty can slide in next to their husbands. Richie chokes up a little when Stan sends everything to each of their phones but he refuses to cry again, even if they _are_ tears of joy. He channels his happiness into tousling Stan’s curls with a shout, hissing at the kick in the kneecap he gets in return, and Richie doesn’t miss the way Eddie practically glares out of the corner of his eye—an expression he sometimes wore when they were kids, increasing in frequency the older they got—unreasonably displeased with Richie’s entire attention not being _solely_ focused on him. He’s such a fucking brat, sometimes, and Richie loves him _so, so muc_ h.

That’s why he makes up for it when they’re back at the motel, surrendering himself to becoming Eddie’s human pillow for all the hours they stay up shooting the shit, unable to keep from touching in even the smallest of ways. That includes kissing, which they do lazily at random intervals between quiet murmurs and sleepy shuffling. Eddie’s lips slot against Richie’s like they were made to connect. The thrill he gets from making out with the man of his dreams—the fuzziness in his head, the tingling down his spine, the mild interest twitching in his boxers that he feels no need to even acknowledge in their current state of comfortable bliss, wrapped up in each other just for the sake of closeness—is something he’s going be yearning for desperately in their time apart, even as he savors it now. But he’ll stand by happily. Because it'll be something to look forward to, the day when this kind of thing will be his—theirs—permanently.

He can’t help thinking Bill had the right of it in his speech as he closes his eyes and nuzzles Eddie’s hair. That, though this story might be ending, a new one is waiting in the wings, better and brighter, less scary and alone.

He rumbles a gentle I love you against Eddie’s forehead, feeling like a king of the fucking trash heap when Eddie clings to him, mimicking an oversized koala, and whispers his reply into the crook of Richie’s neck.

*** * ***

Saying goodbye is difficult and shitty, but they all have lives to get back to and changes to implement, so Richie hides his sulky mood behind his usual brash attitude, making every hug light and every quip jovial.

Mike, as a parting thanks to everyone, promises to deal with all the cars they’d left behind in Derry since he’s going back anyway and will be there until all his business is squared away. Richie doesn’t know where the words come from but he suddenly finds himself revealing that he’ll ride with him, if he doesn’t mind, a decision so wild and baffling it earns him several slow blinks of surprise.

He’d wanted nothing more (beside gaining the love of one Eddie Kaspbrak) than to get the hell out of Derry as a kid, then wasted no time as an adult trying to make his escape at every corner. And yet here he is, saying he wants to go _back_ to the place that nearly destroyed half of his soul, which is fucking insane, but he knows why.

That damn bridge is going to haunt him unless he sees it for himself, one final time, just so he can stop wondering if the carving that’s defined so much of who he _is_ has since disappeared. He keeps his motivation hidden. Thankfully, no one questions his decision.

Once they finish the rundown of their current agendas, the clock starts ticking.

Bev and Ben are the first to go, shoving their luggage into a cab in the middle of the Super 8 parking lot so they can make their flight on time. They’ve got a week-long date on a boat off Omaha’s marina prior to Bev diving back into the stress of her career and pending divorce, and Ben, at the prospect of a vacation, looks as excited as the dog he shows them a slideshow of before sliding into the car with the woman he’s carried a twenty-seven year flame for, the both of them quickly disappearing out of sight.

Bill and Audra are next, an hour or so later, ready but not necessarily eager to get back to the demands of Hollywood. He waves at them after a round of heavy back slaps and stiffly hugs, Bill’s nose looking as red as Rudolph’s when he too folds hinself into a cab, cuddling up next to his wife, and rides off.

Stan creates a group chat with their seven numbers and is the first to contribute to it by sending a picture of a Laughing Kookaburra he’d seen at the zoo. Richie immediately responds by cropping Stan’s face from one of their group snaps and captioning it ‘Huacaya Alpaca,' a move his inner-nerd is absolutely satisfied by. But Stanley and Patricia have to leave sooner rather than later and they do so with a parting invitation for any and all Losers to drop by if ever they find themselves back in Georgia. It's closing in on noon when they finally exit the lot in the Sedanley, leaving Mike, Richie, and Eddie in the exhaust.

This is the part he’d been most nervous about: having to leave Eddie for any length of time after not only _just_ getting him back as a friend, but also having him so totally and completely as a lover. The only reason Richie doesn’t have a meltdown is because he knows they’ll talk every day, that they’ll see each other very soon, that they have a future worth working toward.

He goes in for a hug—because they’d kissed like fumbling teenagers in their room before check-out, since they hadn’t exactly been _that_ intimate in front of any of their friends yet and it would've been awkward with Mike now standing off to the side—and Eddie accepts it, but the embrace lasts for half the time Richie had been expecting, which he’s more than a little hurt by, especially with Eddie pulling away so soon—

But then he’s more than a little shocked by what follows.

“I’m coming with you. To Derry. Just—it’s an easier drive back to Manhattan if I start there and I’d only be alone for like seven hours compared to the fourteen it’d take if I left now, from here, so. Might as well go for the longer trip. It seems more practical. I dunno know. What do you think?”

He’s looking to Mike when he asks that last bit because Mike is the only one who _must_ go back to Derry, so it seems fair to get his permission first, but he shoots these little glances toward Richie every couple of seconds, making it clear that he’s asking him too; if it’s okay to steal a little more time together, if it’s okay that he’s there for whatever Richie wants to confront back in their hometown, if it’s okay that they do this in front of another pair of eyes.

He's sure his answering smile speaks for itself. 

“I think Rich and I would love the company,” Mike says kindly, genuinely pleased. “I’ll take first shift. We can head out whenever you’re ready.”

“Yeah.” Richie, staring at the nervous lines on Eddie’s forehead, licks his chapped lips and widens his smile, grinning broadly by the time Eddie begins to shine as well. His blood thrums with excitement. “Yeah, come on, man. We’re like the Three Amigos now! Traffic’s gonna be killer soon, so let’s hit the road! _Ándale!”_

The SUV feels empty with only three butts filling the seats, even with all of Eddie’s luggage crammed in the trunk, but Richie doesn’t mind because Eddie chooses to sit next to _him_ rather than beside Mike up front. They can’t get as close here as they’d been when they’d sat on the bench a row back, but their knees still touch, if Richie sprawls his long legs out wide, and their shoulders brush when Eddie leans forward to talk to Mike as the car starts rolling. His scent—squeaky clean soap, soothing lavender shampoo, a hint of spicy cologne—is a blanket wrapped snugly around Richie’s battered soul.

*** * ***

Nothing’s changed about Derry since the last time they’d been here, mere days ago (which isn’t surprising considering nothing had really changed in the past twenty years, either), except for the fact that it’s no longer under the thumb of a child eating space entity. It still has a way of feeling bigger than any podunk town ought to. Still has a way of feeling pleasant and eerie all at once.

The Canal Days Festival is long gone, just like the police tape that surrounded the library after the body of Henry Bowers had been found inside. A newspaper rack they pass catches Richie’s eye when he sees the name Mellon printed in the headline, and he stops to read the front page.

It talks about how the group of men who’d attacked gay, asthmatic Adrian Mellon are being charged in his disappearance— _murder_ , his partner Don Haggarty claims, after seeing him get torn apart by a man dressed as a clown, another possible suspect still at large. The men are also suspects in the murder of escaped Juniper Hills patient, Henry Bowers, and are under investigation for the disappearances of multiple children. 

It’s about as clean as you can get, Richie guesses, under the circumstances. No one would ever know the truth, mostly because they would never believe it, so why not pin all this messed up shit on a bunch of dirtbags who would’ve done worse than they already had, given the chance? Pennywise had never been the _only_ evil in this town, after all. It’d just been the only evil they could actually _defeat_.

Still. Derry is beautiful and dreary and _not scary at all,_ and it’s home to the memories Richie had made as a kid in the 80s and 90s; memories he’s made now, in 2016; ones he’ll carry with him, hopefully, for the rest of his life. 

He thinks Eddie and Mike feel the same, as they peer down the street on the way toward the library, though they look about as anxious as Richie felt upon stepping out of the car, body aching from sitting on and off for a total of twenty hours.

“I’ve got a lot of things to take care of,” Mike says, nearing the big entrance. “Copies to make, cars to return, job to resign from… you two are off the hook for tonight, but I’d appreciate some help tomorrow afternoon? I don’t have much to pack, it’s just—what I do have, it means a lot to me. Another trip down memory lane, right? If you’re planning on staying that long.”

He smiles, all sweet and sheepish and charming, the patented Mike Hanlon wholesomeness glinting off his teeth, and he’s so earnest about wanting them around that Richie can’t even scoff. Truth is, he's looking forward to it.

“Sure, Mike,” Eddis agrees. “We’ll be here.”

“You’re welcome upstairs, you know. I don’t exactly have a lot of room or a spare bed, but—”

“No, no.” The resolute refusal has Richie eyeing Eddie curiously. “The Town House is… it’s fine,” he struggles, finishing lamely, and Richie knows Eddie too well _not_ to understand the issue. He can just imagine the thought process happening inside his head.

_Pro: the Town House means alone time with Richie. Con: that’s where Bowers stabbed me in the face. Pro: it’s also where Richie sucked my dick. Con: it’s also also the first place I went after being brought back from the dead by an extraterrestrial turtle god._

Richie’s probably overselling himself in terms of how Eddie is prioritizing his decisions, but hey, he seemed pretty heavily against sharing a space with Mike and not with Richie, so. _It is what it is._

“Alright. You guys have a good night, then. Call me if you need anything, but please, try not to need anything.” Mike's shoulders relax and his grin widens. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sure thing, Homeschool. We’ll bring you a pizza! Sound good?”

“Add pineapple on half and it’ll sound great.”

“Oh? A little slice of paradise to get you pumped for the Sunshine State?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you want,” Eddie interjects quickly, shoving at Richie to get him closer to the red GT that’s still safely parked in the lot. With a ticket tucked beneath the wipers. Awesome. “Goodnight, Mike.”

“Wait, Eddie, hold up—”

He stops pushing Richie, looking back with a questioning quirk of a brow.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say I—I’m—”

“No, hey.” Eddie, sighing, drops his arms down to his sides. They swing slightly as he lets them hang on slumpped shoulders. “If you’re gonna apologize, _don’t_ , okay? I mean it. Doing what we did... I wouldn’t have if I didn’t want to. Like, I _didn’t_ want to, fucking _obviously_ , but it was all of us and—I didn’t _want_ to come here, it’d be sane and rational for me to say I wish you never called, that I wish I never had to remember this shit or live through all of it again, and I fucking—I fucking died, you guys, so I really wish that didnt happen, but also? Also, just, I’m a fucking basketcase because I’m kind of glad it did? If you didn’t call and I didn’t come back, nothing in my life would’ve changed. And it’s kind of paradoxical, right, since I wouldn’t have _known_ I needed change if none of that happened. I wouldn’t've known I could be brave enough toit's anything else. My life... it was fine, I guess. Not really, but I made myself believe it was, and I tried so hard to keep it up. I only know how wrong I was _now_ , after going through all the shit we did. And what I have, what I’m gonna have—” Eddie pauses for a tick, darting his eyes all across Richie’s face, igniting a blush that starts, as usual, at Richie’s slightly receding hairline and ends at the very tip of his bony toes. He has an extreme urge to pull Eddie against his chest and kiss as much skin as he can reach, though he holds back out of habit. Eddie’s fists clench near his hips and Richie gets a hint that he’s feeling a similar aching desire. “It was worth it. _Jesus_ , I can’t believe I’m saying that, but it _was_. I’m not gonna thank you, Mike, 'cause I literally got skewered and bled to death—” He says it so casually, like he’s talking about something that happened to someone else, but Richie clocks the thickness in the back of his throat, the waver in his words, and he has to clench his jaw to stop from either snapping at Eddie for bringing it up or sobbing at the raw scan the memory produced. “But I _will_ say… you did a lot for us, you helped get us to a place where we don’t have to keep self-sabotaging, we can actually start _living,_ and I’m so, so glad we get to know each other again. That we get to hold on to all the things we fucking never should’ve lost.” He turns away from Mike to look at Richie again, this time saying: “I’d do things differently if I could, you know? Go back and just kill the fucker right out the gate if I knew it’d be that easy. But hindsight’s always twenty-twenty. And the way things are—right here, right now—I wouldn’t trade the bad for _anything_ if this is the good that comes from it.”

 _You fucking sap, shut the hell up before I puke fucking rainbows,_ is what Richie thinks he’d probably say if he wasn’t so deliriously high on loving Eddie and his bold tongue, earnest eyes, and travel-mussed hair. He's rendered stupid from it, really. Always has been. 

“I’m glad to hear it, Eds,” Mike says gently, undeniably choked up. Richie knows he appreciates Eddie's absolution, even if it isn't necessary. “Maybe I should write all that down and send it to Bill, since you’re his new muse and all.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he gripes, but he’s grinning wide and toothy, shooting sparks of warmth straight through Richie’s veins.

“Yeah, fuck off! Eddie’s _my_ muse. Tell Bill I don’t share.”

“Tell him yourself,” Mike laughs, shaking his phone in the air.

Richie, who had already forgotten that they can just reach into their pockets and talk to each other whenever they want, gasps delightedly and begins typing a message into the chat. He’s a letter away from hitting send when Eddie tears the phone from his hand and grabs his wrist to tug him to the car, the two of them waving over their shoulders.

“Don’t even think about it,” he mutters, stashing the phone back into Richie’s left pocket. Eddie's fingers don’t go anywhere near the limp outline of his dick, but it’s in the same general vicinity so Richie’s Lower Brain sends a shock of heat to pool in his abdomen without permission or care. He doesn’t think much about it, though, because once they’re tucked safely inside the leather interior of his car Eddie heavily exhales.

“What I was saying out there, it was about me, obviously, but it was also about you.”

“Yeah, I…” Richie pulls onto the street, checkings the mirrors and then Eddie’s profile in equal measure. “Not to be an egotist or anything, but I kinda figured that out once you started talking about all the _good_ you’re gonna get.”

Eddie snorts, making sure he’s buckled in properly. He hasn’t yet complained about the cramped space in the vehicle or how that impacts their overall safety, so Richie is going to assume there's some unspoken appreciation going on here.

“It wasn’t a sex thing,” Eddie grumbles. Richie feels twin flames engulf his cheeks.

“That’s not even what I meant, you horny bastard.”

“Shut up! You’re definitely more of a horny bastard than I am.”

“Maybe for like half our lives, but I’ve had your dick in my mouth. I’ve seen your O face, man. The nympho beast has awoken! We’re both fucked.”

“Not yet, we’re not,” Eddie proclaims, face is as red as Richie’s, but he shakes with silent laughter and grins privately, staring out the windshield.

“See! _See!”_ Richie nearly slams on the breaks. “God, Eddie. Who even _are_ you?”

“I don’t fucking know! An idiot, probably. Your stupidity’s rubbed off on me.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s _rubbed off_ on you.”

Eddie’s sigh is theatrical, capable of spurring Richie on if he wasn’t already thinking hard about where he’s currently taking them. Teasing Eddie about sex is as natural as breathing—he’d been doing so since age ten, even if most of it had been hidden by comments about Sonia Kaspbrak—but teasing Eddie about sex they’ve had _together?_ Maybe he’s a little shy. Sue him.

“Is it okay to say stuff like that? Uh, usually I wouldn’t care, but I’m not looking to screw this up before we even get going, so I gotta ask.”

“Richie, I already said I want you to be yourself, which should tell you something since you’re so annoying and weird and dumb—”

“Never thought I’d be into degradation, Eds, but I’m digging the dirty talk. Keep it going, I’m almost hard.”

“—And I _still_ like you,” Eddie continues, ignoring Richie’s goading.

“ _Like?_ Have I been demoted already?”

“Take me to the Kissing Bridge and I’ll let you know.”

It shouldn’t freeze his blood the way it does, but things are still so _new._ Eddie knows about the initials, hadn’t mocked Richie for it or called him pathetic when he'd confessed it all. He’s choosing to be here, choosing to sit right beside him, offering a secretive smile that’d be bashful if his gaze wasn't so charged. It's that sweet expression that calms Richie and sets his heart back onto a track he can somehow navigate.

“That’s why you wanted to come back, isn’t it?" Eddie wonders. "I can’t think of any other reason you'd willingly subject yourself to visiting this clusterfuck of a town ever again. Same goes for me.”

“So… you’re only here because you wanted to see the evidence of my decades-long love for you?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

It’s said dryly, reminiscent of Stan’s usual delivery, and Richie might actually believe him if it weren’t for his physical incapability of schooling his expression for more than five seconds. 

“And here I was, thinking you wanted to spend some quality alone time on the Tozier Express.”

“If you’re gonna say it like that then I definitely don’t.”

Richie chuckles to himself as he prowls the streets of Derry with practiced ease. His hands tighten on the steering wheel when an old covered bridge comes into view. He’d avoided this area as much as he could as a kid, knowing how Bowers and his gang tended to linger in search of unsuspecting victims to terrorize, but _that_ day… 

He’d biked there, on purpose, with one goal in mind. He was overwhelmed, scared, and full of unwarranted courage—probably brought on by his balls finally dropping, who the fuck knows, certainly not _him_ —and he’d done what he set out to do, in the open where anyone could see if they happened to pass by. Sure, strangers might not have known who the E was meant for, if they’d stopped to take a closer look, but there _were_ people who would have. People like Bowers or the kids from school who heard the rumors and spread even more. People like the Losers, like Eddie.

But he’d done it, had gone through with it, all jitters and determination aside. Because he knew, even at such a young age, that what he’d felt for Eddie Kaspbrak was nothing short of the Real Deal.

Love had made him dumber than dumb, that hasn’t changed. Looking over at Eddie now—pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, with worried lines running deep across his forehead, dimples forming staunchly around his flattened mouth—he finally knows he’s not alone. And he knows that Eddie must be as dumb as he is himself, with the way he rockets out of the car the second it’s parked so he can meet Richie by the driver door and watch him hawkishly with every step forward, hands wringing in front like he doesn’t know what else to do; like he, too, needs so badly to _know_.

Richie wants to grab those hands and hold them, lace their fingers together so they can settle their nerves as one. If they were anywhere else, he would. Instead, he shoves his hands into the pockets of the hoodie he’d borrowed from Eddie to wear over the clothes Bev approved during their shopping spree, tucking the pocket knife into the curve of his palm. Richie _can_ and _will_ shank a bitch if he has to, although that’s not exactly what he’s here for, but if anyone wants to try something—

All air leaves his body in a whoosh when he spots it, faded but still there, exactly where he’d carved it twenty-seven years ago.

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie wheezes.

“Yeah. I wasn’t actually sure it’d still be here, but, uh, there it is.”

“Holy shit.”

“I was gonna—I mean, do you think…”

He cradles the closed knife sacredly, traceing his gaze over the barely-there sharp-edged lines of their initials. Eddie smooths a hand down his back and he accepts the gesture as something a lot larger than it is, always aware of how stingy Eddie can be with casual affection. Not with Richie, though. Never with Richie.

He exhales through puckered lips and drops down to a crouch.

It doesn’t take a lot of precision, digging into what’s already there, but he goes slowly anyway, leading the sharp tip of the blade carefully down and around. Savoring the realization that this isn’t a secret any longer, that it’s more than okay, that it’s reciprocated and real. A blessing from a higher power, maybe. Or perhaps just a simple product of two knuckleheads grabbing destiny by the balls and insisting on defining their paths the way they want to.

Eddie kneels beside him as he’s crossing the plus, grazing his fingertips against Richie's wrist to stop him. The knife slips from his grip when Eddie reaches for it and Richie watches in awe as those smaller hands reach up to brace against a wooden slat while scratching over the remnants of the E in rough swipes; solemn as he works, with a jutting jaw and a fixed stare, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. _He_ is the key to every door tucked far away inside of Richie that he never got to acknowledge or explore. 

Richie doesn’t look away until Eddie snaps the knife closed and stuffs it into Richie’s pocket, giving it a little parting pat. His amygdala must be a little pussy bitch, trying to make him cry again just because Eddie uses his cell’s camera to capture their handiwork. He puts a lid on the waterworks but can’t exactly call it _keeping his cool_ when he wipes his thumb over excess shavings and unceremoniously announces: “I _really_ want to kiss you right now. I hope you know that.”

Eddie stands with a hum and Richie does the same, wincing at the dull ache in his knees.

“Once we get to our room, you can do whatever you want.”

 _Oh?_ Richie’s brows hike up to his hairline, heart stuttering in his chest. It doesn’t _sound_ like a sexy promise Eddie can’t wait for them to fulfill, and his expression is all business without any hint of flirtation (though his eyes are warm, practically dripping with affection, as they pin Richie in place), and yet… there’s just something about the way he shifts on his feet and smooths out his slacks, something about the way he fidgets with his collar as an excuse to knuckle over the bruises Richie had previously sucked onto his neck, that tells him ' _whatever you want'_ means exactly what Richie thinks it does.

But then Eddie flexes a hand, unfurling his fingers to reveal his wedding ring sitting in the dip of his palm, cold and gold and winking at Richie in the sunlight. It disappears into his fist a moment later, which he draws back and throws as hard as a punch. Richie doesn’t see how far the ring goes or where it lands, but he knows it’s gone when Eddie sags against the railing. Richie’s whole body is a mess of tension and he didn’t even _do_ anything. Eddie is as cool as a cucumber, however; his slow, purposeful breathing the only indication that he’s battling something big internally.

They both look out onto the muddy water and grass below, treasuring the quiet of this momentous occasion. Richie doesn’t offer comfort beyond sharing the same air and that’s okay, he supposes, because the ability to _breathe_ , without weakness or hindrance or dread, had always been what Eddie needed most.

“Ready to go?”

Eddie pats the plank of wood, giving the R + E one final inspection, then starts to make his way across the street without waiting for an answer. Richie follows on his heels immediately, leaving behind the lovelorn engraving of a thirteen year old loser newly refreshed by the hands of a devoted, middle-aged twosome. 

It’s not until they’re back in the car that Richie opens his mouth to speak. Eddie beats him to it.”

“I couldn’t see it before, but I can now. _Everything_ that summer pops out more than anything else, but I couldn’t visualize you coming out here at fucking _thirteen_ to do that.” He nods through the window, scraping his nails against the seams of his seatbelt. “I could see you just fine. Your glasses were awful, they made your eyes look like golf balls, and your lips were so chapped I was surprised they never bled—”

“Sounds like you were staring at my eyes and lips a lot, Eds. What gives?”

“—And your voice cracked all the time and it was super nasally. So the image of you I had in my head was one hundred percent spot on, but I guess it wasn’t until Mike brought out that picture that it kind of all clicked into place? I can see you coming here when we were kids now, like I’d been there myself, and it drives me _crazy_ because that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Which is… I mean, you were _never_ sweet to me, Richie. Not to my face. So what the fuck!”

“Okay, well, that’s just objectively false and you know it."

“But you did that, _you_ did, and you told me and I believed you, but seeing it for myself… it’s been there for over half our fucking lives! And I just—” He drops his head back, sighing. Richie shamelessly watches Eddie’s throat bob. “Everything is _so much_ right now, right? This is a lot.” He gestures wildly between them. “A _lot_ -a lot, but it’s really good and I’m happy? I’m not used to that, genuine happiness, but I know I always was when we were together. All the Losers, yeah, but especially me and you. And—are you gonna start driving anytime soon?”

“I—yeah, yeah, sorry.” Richie jams the key into the ignition and peels off over the bridge, turning to head back into town. He feels like he's buzzing. “It’s a lot for me too, y'know? I still don’t really _get_ how you could actually want to be with me, but I’m a selfish asshole so I’m not about to question it.”

“Good. Don’t.”

“I won’t.” Richie laughs. “Or, I’ll try not to.”

“I love you,” Eddie whispers, a tad uncomfortable but still incredibly sincere. He studies Richie for a long moment, cracking a smile. It’s distractedly impish. Richie focuses on the road. “Oh my god, you’re _blushing_ , Rich! I can’t believe I make you blush.”

“You always have. I used to be better at hiding it, but now I’m just this disgusting pile of mush all the time and it’s honestly all your fault.”

“That’s fine. I think it’s cute.”

“No, no way. _I’m_ not cute, nothing _I_ do is cute. You can’t say that. _You’re_ the cute one.”

“Okay, I think it’s disgusting. _You’re_ disgusting. That make you feel better?”

“It sure does, mi amor. Gets me all tingly.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, grumbling something he can’t quite catch. But then suddenly he sits up straight and punches Richie in the shoulder, pointing wildly up ahead.

“Pull over!”

“Where at? The pharmacy?” Richie frowns and scoffs. “No fuckin’ way, dude. I know it’s a security blanket or whatever, but you don’t have asthma and you don’t need an inhaler. Let that shit stay ash, alright? You’re doing great, man, I mean it.”

“That’s not what you’re going in for, calm down. And _pull over!”_

“Fine! Jesus Christ. Calm down.” He does as he’s told, parking in a vacant spot right near the windows. “Wait, _I’m_ going in?”

“Well, yeah. We need some stuff and this is new for me, and I know I’ll freak out if I have to grab this shit myself, and I’m absolutely _not_ going back in there after I got puked on and poked at. And even if I wanted to go in, doing that together… someone might think—I mean, not that I’d care if they did, not really, that’s like on the bottom of the list of things that worry me right now, but people recognize you for some reason, so—”

Richie shivers over what he’s certain Eddie is implying.

“Just taking a wild guess here, but we’re talkin’ sex stuff, right? ‘Cause if you’re asking me to grab you Beano or something, I’m gonna be confused and disappointed.”

“Yes, _asshole_ , I’m talking about sex stuff.” It’s Eddie’s turn to blush. But being as stubborn as he is he keeps going, slicing a hand through the air decisively. “We need— _ugh_ , I’m sure you know what we need.”

“Yeah, no shit, but I think you should say it.”

“Richie.”

“If you can’t say it then how do you expect to actually do it?”

“Because I know how to fuck!” Richie’s thighs squeeze involuntarily, a jolt of anticipation striking in his abdomen. He laughs and scrubs a hand over his stubble. “Not… not guys, that way, but—”

“I guess that means you want me to be the bottom bitch?”

“ _Bottom—_ Just buy some fucking lube and condoms, Richie!”

“Okay, okay! Don’t get your little compression shorts in a twist.”

“Are you being serious right now—”

“I’ll do it, since I did say I wanted you to fuck me.” Damn but he’s quivering already, just talking about it like this, outside some old creep’s pharmacy with no foreplay to speak of. “And it’ll probably be easier if I—if I try it first.”

“Right. That’s what I was thinking. But I know you said you've never gone that far either, so if you’re not comfortable I’ll totally understand. We can do something else.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine. I might cry, just a head’s up, but it’ll be great, I swear. You already know I want it. With you.” Richie claps his hands, rubbing them together just for something to do. Composing himself is difficult. “Any preferences, my good sir?”

“No latex,” Eddie says, giving it no thought at all. “I’m not technically allergic, but certain types make my skin burn on first contact.”

“No burning dicks. Check. Anything else? Rubber gloves? Wet wipes? You want some candy?”

“Don’t ask me if I want candy right before we’re about to have sex, Richie! You sound like you should be driving a white van!”

“You fucking twink. How many dudes in white vans have tried picking you up?”

“What’d you just call me? A _twinkie?”_

“Basically. I know you’re saying it like that because you think I’m talking about the Hostess snack. I’m not.” He smirks, relishing Eddie’s rosy grimace. “You know what? No, I’m a fucking idiot. You’re one thousand percent a twunk, Eddie. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Are you speaking another language? What the fuck are you saying?”

“Quit acting like you’ve never been on a porn site in your life.” Richie ducks out of the car then, slamming the door so he can lean in through the window. “Is that a no to the candy?”

Eddie frowns and adjusts the seat belt he’s still got clicked into place.

“Skittles,” he says dourly, and Richie can feel his own expression melt into something embarrassingly fond.

“Alright, you got it. And hey—you’ll still be here when I get back? You’re not gonna steal my car and ditch me after I go inside?”

Eddie blinks a few times, long lashes fluttering, nose scrunching as he decides how to respond. Richie can pinpoint exactly when Eddie realizes it's not really a joke.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and it’s the promise Richie needs to march into Keene’s with his head held high, plucking a red basket from a stack near the entrance without any hesitance whatsoever. 

There’s music playing in the background and a few customers browsing the aisles, all of which he ignores in favor of searching for the things he needs so he can get out fast. Suggesting wipes and gloves hadn’t just been for jest. He knows Eddie would very much require and appreciate such items, at least to start with, so he grabs them—along with some Skittles and Whoppers and Tic Tacs—and begins hunting for the main components.

Richie’s not ashamed, not really. He’s done this before in certain capacities, albeit not for a very long time, having been in a longstanding dry spell before Eddie resurfaced in his strange, patchy world. So it’s experience as well as common sense that leads him to the good stuff. And before he knows it he’s at the register with all his items spread out in front of him, getting rung up by Mega Bitch Greta Keene, snapping a wad of Hubba Bubba she’s probably been gnawing since the 80s.

“Aren’t you a comedian or something?” She squints at him, flipping frizzy hair away from her shoulders. “That Tozier guy?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“Did we go to school together? Derry High?”

“Yep, that is… also me.”

 _Blip. Blip. Blip._ She scans each product lazily, snapping her gum and staring at Richie through clumpy lashes and crooked liner.

“You used to hang out with that Kaspbrak kid, huh? He was in here a while back, had a total freakous. Probably found some _real_ pills and got high.”

“Uh huh.”

 _Blip. Blip._ Pause.

She shakes the box of condoms at him, rolls the bottle of lube over in her hand, smacks her lips when Richie impatiently shifts from foot to foot.

“So you’ve got a girlfriend after all? Kinda figured all those jokes were bullshit.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

She shrugs. Another _b_ _lip_.

“You grew up alright.” The slow roll of her eyes over his face and torso—thankfully not any lower, due to the counter he’s standing behind, though he wouldn’t put it past her—makes him shove his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, elbows wagging at his sides. “Don’t really seem like a one-woman kind of guy, ya know?”

“Well, you’re right about that,” he says, though it’s more of a private joke than an actual agreement. She has no clue he’s more of a one- _man_ kind of a guy. 

“Oh yeah?”

Another bubble blown. Popped. Richie winces.

And then he _jumps_ , startled by the blare of a horn that’s slightly muffled through the storefront window. He whirls around to see Eddie leaning over the driver’s seat, arms flying in the air as if to say _‘_ _I’ll be sixty and incapable of popping a boner by the time you get out here,_ _hurry!’_ Richie angles himself so his two thumbs up and be seen between the lettering on the glass.

“Is that—”

“Yep.” Richie grabs a card from his wallet at random and slides it toward her, giving it a little shake in hopes that it might speed her along.

“You guys in town for some kind of reunion?”

“I guess you could say that,” he mumbles, reaching with grabby hands when she slowly fills a plastic bag with his purchases and swipes his card. The machine takes forever to spit out a receipt.

“You gonna be here much longer?”

“Still on top of all the gossip, I see. Do you get paid to be this nosy or is that just a perk of the job?”

Her snort isn’t a real laugh, is one of those harsh noises that mimics someone clearing their sinuses rather than expressing amusement, and it’s obvious it’s simply meant to flatter him.

“Funny. You should stop by again, if you’re in town for a while. We could have some fun.”

Uhhhhhhhh… _what?_

Richie remembers the rumors Greta spread about Bev, remembers how she loved antagonizing Eddie or pushing Stan around. He remembers how she’d mocked Bill’s stutter and laughed at Richie’s appearance but never his wit.

He’s not one to hold grudges, it’s just painfully obvious she hasn’t changed, not in any way that matters. No one in Derry ever really does, Richie supposes, and he feels saddened by that thought just as much as he feels resigned to it. Because he’ll be out of here soon, once more—only _this_ time he’ll be taking with him the only thing that ever made Derry worth a damn. The Losers Club.

Even if Richie was _interested_ in females, he’d never look at this one twice.

“Yeah, like, I’m flattered and everything? But I’d rather shoot myself in the dick. Thanks.”

Greta’s shock is instantaneous and satisfying as hell. He tugs the plastic bag out of her hand to slip onto his arm, tucks his wallet into his jeans and steps away as she recovers, rearranging her annoyed expression into a tactfully blank one.

“Whatever. You’re still a giant loser. Have a great day.”

“Have a bad one!” Richie sing-songs. Still facing in her direction he raises both hands and forms two L’s with his index fingers and thumbs, giving her a phony pout as he backs out the door.

He’s still chuckling to himself when he reenters the car, forcing Eddie out of his reverie and nearly making him drop his phone, which he’s blasting music from.

_‘—change your friends, your place in life. You can change your mind. We can change the things we say and do anytime. Oh no, but I think you’ll find that when you look inside your heart, oh, baby, I’ll be there. Yeah, hold on. I’m holding on. Baby, just come on, come on, come on. I just wanna hear you say, I can’t stop loving you, and no matter what you say or do—’_

“Psyching yourself up with _love_ songs? So we can make sweet, sweet—”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Pandora likes to play me random shit, and this came on because I listened to _Jump_ one time a week ago—”

“Uh huh. That’s really fascinating, but _shhh_ for a minute, alright? ‘Cause you’re not gonna be- _lieve_ what just happened.”

Eddie silences the music and takes the bag from Richie when it's offered, holding it in his lap like it’s a bomb that might explode at any moment.

“What? What happened? Did someone try to sell your autograph again? Show me who it was, I’ll fucking kick their ass, I swear—”

“No, but that’s…” He clears his throat and shakes his head, feeling far too pleased by Eddie’s protective streak. “Let’s table that for later. Now listen! Greta Keene just tried to invite ol’ Trashmouth down to Pound Town.”

“Wait, _what?_ ”

“I’m up there and she’s ringing, she’s scanning all that stuff, incriminating things, and you honked the fucking horn so she saw you out here waiting for me—she thought you were high last time you went in, by the way, and you’re like a chipmunk on crack ninety-eight percent of the time so I can’t blame her—but there was _zero_ correlation between me buying lube and you waiting for me. People are so dumb, man. Like, good for us, but whatever. Anyway, it’s only ‘cause I’m famous. I’m not even saying that to be hoity-toity. If I was just some pathetic schmuck she used to go to school with—well, first of all, she wouldn’t’ve been hitting on me, and second, she would’ve been a bitch and said something about it, about you and me. It’s basic shit, right? But instead she was like, _we could have some fun_ , if I wanted to _stop by again_ —”

Eddie balks, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head. Richie dissolves into a fit of giggles as he sets the car in motion and drives. Eddie isn’t even attempting to hide his indignation.

“Did she really do that?”

“Why? You jealous?” He turns the AC on while Eddie begins rummaging through the bag. “I can turn around, if that’s what you want. She seemed pretty desperate. You definitely have a chance.”

Eddie doesn’t reply, not even to yell at Richie for cackling like an asshole, which is usually a bad sign, and it makes Richie’s gut swoop with dread. He’d said the wrong thing, clearly, so he opens his mouth to apologize, glancing briefly at the side of Eddie’s face—

Ah, there it is. The proud middle finger of his left hand. It’s a relief and also incredibly endearing, especially when he doesn’t even glance up, too busy scrutinizing everything Richie had handed him. He’s already got his pack of Skittles balancing on his thigh.

Richie relaxes then, allows himself to drape an arm around Eddie’s shoulders to gently squeeze the back of his neck, fingers toying with the hairs at his nape that the sweat of summer heat is transforming into tiny curls. Eddie shivers at the touch and leans into it. Richie is such a fool for him, for the way he makes him feel, that he decides to postpone their Town House tryst despite the constant stream of arousal simmering in his blood in order to propose something silly and saccharine and all their own.

“Hey, Eddie, you wanna grab a bite to eat?”

The rustling pauses.

“We had tacos with Mike three hours ago. Are you _actually_ hungry or is this your way of asking me on a date?”

“Well, you know, I figured it’d be impolite if we didn’t do the wining and dining before the—”

“Sixty-nining?” Eddie finishes dryly. “Yeah, don’t bother with the romantic preamble on my account, Rich. Let’s go jerk each other off behind a fucking dumpster, you _animal_ , forget everything else. I mean, _honestly—_ ”

“I was kidding! Yes, I’m asking you on a date. Because I want to, not because I think I have to so I can get in your pants. I already did that.” Eddie flushes at that. Then again, so does Richie. He drums his fingers on the wheel, easing up on the gas. “I’ll date the shit out of you, if you’ll let me, so I’m thinking we should grab a burger and hang out and _not_ think about anything that could send us spiraling back into our super weird traumas. What d’you think? Please? _Please please please?_ ”

Eddie licks his lips, considering the offer. He presses a shy smile into his shoulder, as he “thinks,” smothering it against his jacket like Richie hadn’t already bore witness to the wonderful sight. He sets their bag of goodies on the floorboard behind his seat and shifts a little to stare at Richie’s profile.

Eddie isn’t going to shoot him down, that’s a fact he should be confident in, but the nerves buzzing beneath his skin exhume all the doubts he’d tried to bury multiple times across the rocky years of his life, especially the ones he’d been juggling before and after Eddie had kissed him that euphoric moment in the dark.

But when he says, finally, “yeah, Richie, I’d really like that,” all those doubts float steadily up, up, and away. Richie shoots him a crooked grin and turns them onto the street he knows he wants to go.

The diner he stops at is one they frequented as kids whenever they had change they didn’t want to spend on games or movies or junk food. There’s nothing different about it in the present, other than a coat of paint that had probably only been updated a handful of years prior. It gives Richie the same warm fuzzies that visiting the clubhouse had stirred.

“I’m buying,” Eddie asserts, as if Richie might argue, as if he weren’t absolutely _giddy_ about Eddie treating him on their official First Date.

“Are you sure that’s wise, Mr. Risk Analyst? My stomach’s basically a black hole. And I’m gonna need a lot of calories to get me at optimal energy for what we’ve got planned.”

“Do _not_ make me think about bodily fluids when I’m about to eat,” Eddie complains. And since Richie is the sappiest sap to ever sap, he simply smiles in the face of that usual brand of playful outrage, basking in the familiar comfort of it. They gravitate towards each other after in the quiet, the way they always did, but unlike back then Richie is able to cup Eddie’s scarred cheek for no other reason than he _wants_ to.

He’s reminded of the short glimpses he’d caught in the Deadlights, all the terrible futures he could’ve been subjected to had things gone differently, and he’d be choking on tears and regret if he were by himself because that’s _all_ he’d be. _Alone_. But there’s another outcome waiting for him now that all is said and done; a future he can only see in Eddie’s eyes, through a blend of chocolate irises and expanded pupils. It’s beautiful and bright and all he’s ever wanted, plus _more._ And it’s _his_ and _Eddie’s_ and _theirs._ Forever, if he plays his cards right.

There’s a string that’s bound them through the course of space and time and stressful situations, frayed and forgotten but always present, and it rests easily now that they’re together, sagging in the short distance between them when they meet in the middle for a kiss that speaks volumes more than two jabbermouths ever truly could, in a universal truth.

Richie leans over the center console, tilting his head to deepen their connection, pressing his hand over Eddie’s chest to feel the strong thrum of his heart, the beat blanketing him in a bed of bliss. Eddie hauls him closer by clinging to his shirt, causing Richie’s elbow to hit the dash. A melodious instrumental drifts through the speakers, orchestral with marching band drums and tittering chirps. It doesn’t even register that he’d accidentally turned the radio on in his haste to get closer until a haunting voice cuts in.

_‘I’m moving out of orbit. Turning in somersaults. A giant turtle’s eye. As jellyfish float by.’_

Richie thinks of what had brushed his foot in the quarry at thirteen and what he’d seen beneath the green tinted water at forty, and of the game Mike had brought for them during Bev’s party ( _magnets and racing_ , _RichieAndEddie_ ). He thinks of the little Legos Georgie Denbrough loved to play with, and of the glossy posters of marine life hung inside the science classrooms of Derry High.

He thinks of the eyes that had watched him ( _Maturin_ , Stan claimed), frozen in the throes of blinding death, and all the galaxies they’d contained. He thinks of Eddie, stitched and reformed wondrously within that endless celestial ocean. Or so he imagines.

 _‘It’s what keeps me alive,’_ the voice croons, drowning in the music as Richie drowns in Eddie’s love.

He watches in slow-motion as an unknown expression passes over Eddie’s features—an extension of awe, perhaps; or of innate recognition—but it’s gone in a blink, smoothed away by a tiny simper. Something new blossoms inside Richie’s chest, winding vines circling his frayed nerves and folding them together. That perfect, complete circle Bill had mentioned irons itself, unencumbered, into the very fabric of Richie Tozier by the heated gaze of Eddie Kaspbrak himself.

Eddie pulls the key from the ignition and drops it into Richie’s lap, knuckles brushing his jean-clad knee on the way back. It’s the type of thing he’d felt a lot of as a kid, but there’s no shame here in wanting more. It’ll take time to get to that point for everything, but that’s the goal, isn’t it? He has time. He’s _made_ time.

Richie ducks forward to plant one final kiss against Eddie’s temple, inhaling the scent of lavender mixing with leather and two types of cologne.

“Hey, how much you wanna bet I can down an entire milkshake without getting brain freeze even once?”

“You can’t freeze what isn’t there,” Eddie gibes, “so I’m not betting you anything.”

“Major fucking ouch, man. But I seem to recall you thinking I had a _big brain,_ once upon a time ago.” He pretends to think on it by rubbing at his bristly chin. “Or maybe it was something _else_ you thought was big? Hmm…”

“Yeah, your big fat mouth, you dumbass.”

“Like you can complain.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie breathes, painfully besotted.

The feeling is absolutely mutual.

Richie slides out of the car, hitting the remote on his keychain to lock the doors, meeting Eddie on the other side with a pep in his step the whole way. They walk into the diner together, Eddie mumbling something Richie can’t quite hear, the smell of fried food bombarding their senses. It’s on the way to a lone corner booth that Richie decides to splay a tentative hand across the small of Eddie’s back, feeling hot and nervous and brave, even if just for a minute or two.

Eddie slides in beside him rather than across, scooting against Richie snugly to avoid a sticky splotch on the corner of the table. There’s a man at the counter that squints at them disdainfully, but Richie tells himself he doesn’t care and knows in his bones that he _means_ it. He ignores that glare in favor of tuning into Eddie’s rant about everything he disapproves of on the menu and why.

Richie rests his chin in his palms and watches the man he loves drone on and on about the dangers of E. coli.

He's never been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhh! So, technically this is the "final" chapter. The story could be 100% done right here. But you know there are two chapters left, which are both an epilogue, so we're not done yet! I also really want to add some oneshots to this universe because I can't let it go, but we'll see what happens. I am very lazy and already have other wips. lolol.
> 
> Anyway! I really, really hope you enjoy this chapter since it's a conclusion to this part/time in the story. (The epilogue is only a few months after this chapter, but still.) I actually feel pretty good about how everything came together from the full story and wrapped up here. I hope it works for all of you as well. The epilogue is more fluffy goodness, so stick around for that!
> 
> I extremely appreciate all the comments and kudos I've gotten so far. The comments especially are such a joy to look over, again and again, and have kept me going. I'd seriously love to know what you all thought of this big finishing chapter or on the fic in general. It's been my baby for months and it's kind of bittersweet that we're 2 chapters away from being done. <3 Once I finish posting this fic I'll try to get back into writing some of the other fics I started that I put on the backburner to focus on editing this one. I hope some of you are maybe looking forward to those, too.
> 
> Thanks again :) Feel free to leave your thoughts!
> 
> (The two songs mentioned in this chapter: Can't Stop Lovin' You - Van Halen, Bloom - Radiohead. [Bloom is so, so beautiful. And fit so well for that full-circle moment, with the mention of a turtle. :') Listen to it if you haven't already!])


	12. Epilogue (Part One): Three Months

Richie doesn’t know how to pronounce Micanopy. 

It sounded like a word Mike made up on the fly when he told them all—first in the group chat, then by individual phone calls—that he found a place to plant new roots. In Florida. And no matter how many times he spoke the name of the town, Richie could not get a handle on saying anything other than _my can of peas._ Audra informed him that Bill had almost pissed his pants the first time Richie sent those words to her husband, so at least he had that going for him.

Richie felt like an asshole for making fun of it once he learned it’d been named after a Native American Chief, though, and then he’d made _Mike_ feel like an asshole by bringing up all the shit he’d put them through with the tokens and the fake ritual, and can’t he stay away from anything tribal, _please?_

Stanley had banned any and all mentions of _It_ and _Derry_ from all private and public chats he partook in, after that. None of them complained.

Richie can’t believe it’s been three months since that mega shitshow already. Three months since a group of six middle-aged Losers expelled an evil force from the depths of a small Maine town. Three months since their lives had changed dramatically without feeling, in some ways, like they’d changed at _all._

Three months since Richie had seen his friends face-to-face, which is about to change in three seconds.

He’d gotten a flight from Chicago to Gainesville, then a taxi from Gainseville to Micanopy, and he’s jet lagged to hell but feeling fucking _phenomenal_ (despite his lack of enthusiasm for having to exist in the state of _Florida_ for seven days) when he pulls up to a Spanish inspired home surrounded by a super long driveway and so much grass you’d think a cow lived here.

Richie ducks out of the taxi with a groan, popping his back as he begins typing a message to let everyone know of his arrival, pausing when he hears a scream from up ahead. And then suddenly Beverly Marsh is rushing toward him, completely barefoot with her toenails painted blue, Ben Hanscom and Bill Denbrough hot on her heels like charging bulls. Richie lifts Beverly into a spin after she rams into his chest. He slams into the side of the car as he’s manhandled by an additional two pairs of hands.

“ _Jesus_ , don’t break my back,” he playfully warns, barking a laugh. He reaches up to save his glasses from falling when Ben’s beefy arm wraps around his neck a little too snugly. “There’s plenty of Tozier to go around, I promise!”

“At least until Eddie gets here,” Bev teases, green eyes sparkling like diamonds. Richie’s ears go hot when Bill snickers.

“Speaking of…” Stanley Uris steps across the yard, leading Patty and Audra and the one and only Mike Hanlon along the way, opening his arms wide when only a few feet separates them. Richie takes it upon himself to close the gap. “How did you _actually_ convince him to get on a plane?”

“Oh, I just told him the faster he got here the faster he’d get to see my _devilishly_ handsome face. What more motivation could there be?”

“Did that really work?” Ben wonders. Bless his big, tender heart for being so genuine.

“Nah. I started telling him about all the free shit I get from those rewards programs, frequent flyer miles and all that, and suddenly he decided quick travel was worth contracting the black plague.”

“I’m sure he considers you one of those rewards, Rich,” Mike says gently, smiling so wide his eyes nearly close. Richie pretends to gag as he slaps him on the back, pulling him into a tight hug too.

“Is it just me,” Audra says suddenly, reaching out to shake Richie’s hand, “or did you cut your hair? You look different.”

Bev gasps, as if she hadn’t just chopped _her_ hair short a few weeks back. A pixie cut, she’d called it. 

“You _do_ look different! When did that happen?”

“Two days ago? I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle another roasting from Audra, so drastic measures had to be taken.”

The woman in question rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Patty squeezes Richie’s arms comfortingly. He gives the lovely Mrs. Uris his brightest grin.

“Eddie’s going to hate it,” Stan says knowingly, and Richie chuckles because, yeah, he probably will. Hell, Richie’s not even sure if he _himself_ likes it, but there’s nothing he can do now. “You look good, Rich,” Stan adds after a beat, brushing imaginary dirt off Richie’s shoulders to let him know he’s not just talking about the style of his hair.

“You too, Stanley,” he gently replies. Their eyes tell tales they don’t need to speak of. He’s proud of himself for that.

Ben insists on helping with Richie’s luggage even though he’d only brought a rollaboard and his trusty duffel, plus a housewarming gift for Mike; a Vitamix he’d went halfsies on with Eddie because they both knew he'd have a hard time accepting expensive gifts from his old friends otherwise, regardless of how successful they’d all become. (Richie doesn't want to think about buying gifts _with_ Eddie, texting links back and forth until they could come to an agreement. Like a _couple._ Okay, maybe he does want to think about it.)

There are ruddy stone floors and white walls in Mike’s new abode, accompanied by marble countertops and black light fixtures, a brick fireplace taking center stage in the family room. It’s all appropriately masculine. More traditional than trendy. Very _Mike_.

The home isn’t fully furnished yet, but there are plenty of hints at what’s to come within the dark woods, leather couches, and colorful accents. It’s not at all like Richie’s prized bungalow in Chicago (light and sleek, modern with a slight farmhouse twist, quirky through every inch), but it’s nice, cozy, and Mike looks so _happy_ giving a tour, probably for the third or fourth time that day, that Richie can only smile and listen with minimal interruptions.

They’d booked rooms at a Bed and Breakfast not too far away, so Richie’s bags join everyone else’s in the back of the rental Mike had thought to get for the duration of their stay. It’s looking pretty full by the time he adds his in and with the way Eddie packs Richie isn’t sure they won’t have to make two trips later that night. Stan might be able to organize the bags a little better before then. He supposes they'll wait and see.

They stand around the coffee table, weaved in between stacks of books that still need to go on shelves, and make small talk that mostly consists of Ben swiping through pictures of his dog and moping about how he wishes he and Bev could’ve brought their fur baby along. For at least a solid _hour_. 

And it’s not as if Richie isn’t _interested_ —the dog is cute and seems friendly, not at all like the fluffy little demon beasts that tend to stare at him in supermarkets and send shivers down his spine—but he’s getting jittery the longer he stands here without Eddie, can’t stop checking the clock to make sure he knows when to leave.

Another half hour passes, this time taken over by Stan proudly showing off a video of him painstakingly putting together a humongous birdbath in his backyard (his friends are _boring_ and Richie _loves_ them), before he excuses himself, quietly thanking Mike for handing over the keys to his personal vehicle on the way out.

Eddie had predictably been against the very convenient option of air travel, though thankfully Richie hadn’t had to sit through _another_ rant about germs and accidents. Eddie had been too scatterbrained to conjure all that up again, which was why Richie had been able to convince him to try it in the first place, even offering to fly to New York first so they could catch a plane to Florida together. Eddie appreciated the sentiment more than Richie thought he would but ultimately declined, feeling as though he should be able to do it on his own. Like everything else.

Richie couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t frustrated by Eddie’s stubborn desire to be completely independent during some of his most trying times. They’d spoken nonstop since leaving Derry separately that final time, either through texts or calls or video chats on Skype. Even if things were hectic on any given day, they both made it a point to send, at the bare minimum, a snapshot of their lives in whatever moment they were currently living. But Eddie had refused any kind of help outside of pure moral support and it pissed Richie off to no end. Not because he thought Eddie _needed_ Richie to save the day or some bullshit like that (more often than not it was _Richie_ who needed _Eddie_ ), but simply because he wanted to _be there_ for him the way he never could before, to make things easier or better or happier. 

Eddie had gotten upset, at first, with Richie constantly asking if he could do something, _anything_ , to make his increasingly difficult life a little less complicated—until he’d realized that Richie only wanted to establish his place in Eddie’s bubble, Post-Derry. It would’ve been totally embarrassing if Eddie hadn’t gone all soft and sweet in assuring Richie that he was only doing this by himself so they could start their partnership (coupledom) completely clean and free when the time finally came.

Richie did _not_ hang up on him to cry about it for three straight hours, thank you very much.

But things were good after that. Mostly.

Eddie had returned to the house he shared with Myra during his first week back in Manhattan, arguing nonstop with her about the divorce he requested, through his attorney, at the Super 8 in Atlanta. He'd had enough by the end of seven days and relocated to an obscenely expensive hotel for the, second week, finally finding a moderately priced shoebox apartment to move into close to a month later.

Myra hadn’t wanted to let go at first, no matter how many times Eddie tried to explain, which Richie could admit was _fair._ If he had a husband who disappeared out of the blue and then requesting a divorce before he even got home, he'd be up in arms too. But what _wasn't_ fair was how she'd treated Eddie all those years, nor was how she'd gone about handling this very strange situation. 

Myra rejected all claims that she’d been just like Eddie's mom while relying on the _exact_ methods Sonia Kaspbrak used in order to keep her son leashed at home. Only, the way Eddie told the story, all fired up over the phone one horribly early morning in October, his _wife's_ attempts failed to work on him the way his mother's used to. Myra had tried to tell him he was _sick_ , that he _needed_ her to take care of him, that she loved him and he loved her— _don’t you, Eddie? Say you love me, Eddie!_ She’d told him that wherever he’d gone, whoever he’d been with, they’d only poisoned his mind and everything would be _better_ now that he was home, and they could get counseling or start going to Church on Wednesdays or take a vacation to _Vermont_ , if that’s what he wanted, if that’s what would help him _heal_.

Eddie didn’t need or want anything she was suggesting and he’d told her so directly. And when _that_ didn’t work he’d whipped out the Big Guns, the ones Richie had been afraid of even acknowledging for damn near the entirety of his life.

Eddie had told Myra he was _gay_.

The details of the rest of that conversation had become muddied, with Eddie refusing to reveal what exactly he’d said to get her to back off when she played the ‘ _you’re just confused, sweetheart’_ card. Whatever it was, though, it had to have been a whammie because Myra had quickly agreed to never speak to each other outside of what their divore proceedings necessitated.

Richie thinks, to himself and himself alone, that Eddie might have told her about _him_ , in some capacity. About their feelings and their plans. He might’ve stuck it to Myra about loving Richie the way he’d stuck it to Sonia about all that placebo bullshit, way back when, and that’s an image that just… _wow_. WOW. 

Richie tries not to ponder on it often, tries not to wonder too much. Anytime he does he just ends up burying his face in his hands and blushing like a schoolgirl, so he occupies his mind with of other things instead. Like how the process of Eddie’s divorce is sailing on mostly smooth waters by this point, and how he likes decorating his new apartment with random shit he finds in department stores and online that he reminds Richie daily to make space for in Chicago, and how he’s still working the most boring job in existence because he can’t decide if he wants to keep at it or invest in nursing school but he’s considering both options and that’s what really matters. That he has a _choice_.

Richie thinks about himself, too. About how he’s been writing like a maniac, jotting down streams of consciousness that usually results in at least one golden nugget among the chaos that can then transfer to a document and _maybe_ form into _something_ ; about how he’s been radio silent to the outside world in terms of his career while his new publicist works on dismissing outlandish rumors (that Richie had been kidnapped, that he’d had a stroke on stage, that he moved to Canada to become a recluse, that he _died_ ) in preparation of his future return; about how he fights himself tooth and nail to talk to Beverly or Stan on the days he feels too numb to function or too ashamed to look in the mirror, and how, on the nights he wakes screaming Eddie’s name, he allows himself a moment of vulnerability by calling to hear Eddie’s sleep-roughened voice when the pictures and messages he’d saved just aren’t enough to convince him that anything after Neibolt is _real_.

He misses Eddie always, but in those lowest moments especially. Which is why he’d been looking forward to this Thanksgiving getaway since they’d each confirmed their availability for it a month prior.

It’s not nerves, exactly, that are bouncing around in his belly after arriving at Gaineseville Regional Airport yet again. It’s more like—well, okay, maybe it _is_ nerves, all from the prospect of seeing Eddie in person after ninety days of being apart. And that’s really only because _time apart_ scares the living daylights out of Richie.

They haven’t forgotten each other, they haven’t forgotten _anything,_ and they’re all thankful for that, but Richie knows time has a natural way of distancing people, even _without_ creepy alien amnesia, and he’s worried that things will be different once he and Eddie see each other again. Three months isn’t a long-long time but it's long enough to put things into perspective, and Eddie hasn’t shown an indication in _any_ of their conversations that this isn’t something he wants after all, it's just... Richie can’t help thinking that the ways they’d touched, the things they’d said, will all turn out to somehow be a fluke. He can just imagine Eddie smiling tightly at him and giving his back an awkward pat as he explains, in the claustrophobic safety of the car, how he’s _very sorry_ but he’d been high on his second shot at life and didn’t really _mean_ any of it, not the secret smiles or the mindblowing sex or the world-altering confessions. He finally has freedom in NYC, why would he want to throw all that away just to appease a pathetic lovesick idiot like Richie?

There’s no reason to entertain such a scenario, no signs or flags or questionable conversations, but Richie is a frazzled mess who’s still working on a lot of things—himself, most importantly. Paranoia is a hard cage to escape.

Richie gulps down his fears and slinks over towards baggage claim, keeping his eyes locked on his phone as he waits for Eddie to let him know he’s on his way over. The notification arrives as he finishes skimming a recent email from his manager.

****Eddie:** **

_Are you here? Tell me you’re here._

_I can’t stand this place. Feels like I’m covered in grime._

_Someone kept coughing behind me. Fucking disgusting._

****Richie:** **

_i’m here. want me 2 grab ur bags?_

_oh shit. now u probly have measles!!_

_dont worry, eddie my love. nurse tozier will take good care of u._

There’s no reply, so Richie does what he said he would and searches for Eddie’s luggage: two big suitcases with a carry-on for toiletry buckled to the largest one. Richie’s arms are a far cry from the noodles he’d sported as a kid, but there’s no hiding the strain he feels when he lifts them, even just to set them on their wheels. He rolls his eyes at Eddie’s over-preparedness and shuffles a few feet to the side to get out of the swarming crowd when he hears it. A very loud, very shrill:

“What the _fuck_ happened to your hair?”

Eddie Kaspbrak (all five foot nine inches of him) is a sight to behold, marching toward Richie in a green coat, orange tshirt, and fucking _chinos,_ cuffed above black New Balance shoes that look straight out of the 90s. His hair’s a mess, completely unstyled due to travel, the feathery strands near his ears starting to curl, and there are purplish bags under his eyes, which are all but glaring at Richie the closer he gets.

Eddie uses his shoulders to unapologetically shove past people without actually touching them, gaze stuck on Richie unwaveringly, and Richie feels all his frantic energy morph into a neat little ball that settles in his chest calmly.

“Stan said you’d hate it.”

“What the fuck does _Stanley_ know?” he says with a scoff, scrubbing a hand over his five o'clock shadow. “I don’t hate it.”

“But you don’t like it.” Eddie makes a face, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. “Alright, gimme your barf bag. I’ll wear it on my head 'til you come to terms with how sexy I am now.”

“Shut up,” Eddie grouses through a grin he’s unable to hide.

“This is the part where you say ‘but Richie, you were _always_ sexy—’ _oomf!_ ”

Eddie slams into him like a mini freight train, squawking as he’s lifted off the ground for a few seconds. He’s back on his feet before he has time to complain, giving the spot between Richie's shoulder blades a couple of awkward bro pats like that could somehow undercut the way he hops onto his toes to press his face against Richie’s shoulder.

“Whoa, hey." His arms rise to wrap around Eddie’s torso, holding him close. “Hi,” he breathes, soft and low and just for him, blocking out the world by squeezing his eyes shut so tight he sees a flash of red.

They hadn’t discussed the issue of public affection, if it was a yay or a nay or something in between, a stage they needed to work up to. Richie wasn’t _out_ to anyone but the Losers and the majority of his professional team, and Eddie wasn’t out to anyone but the Losers and his soon-to-be ex-wife, so it was kind of hard to talk about what lines they had and where or when they could overstep them.

They’re bordering on suspicious territory here, locked together in the middle of a busy airport, and Richie feels like he’s being scrutinized by a thousand eyes—

“Missed you, man,” Eddie whispers into Richie’s bomber jacket, fingers clenching around the gaudy red Hawaiian shirt he’s got buttoned up underneath. His heart thunders.

Richie pulls away first, with great reluctance, to stare down at the splotchy redness overtaking the normally healthy color of Eddie’s cheeks and neck. He keeps his expression neutral, but those bambi eyes hold too many emotions to contain so easily and Richie gets lost within them immediately. He tilts Eddie’s chin up with his knuckles, swipes the corner of his perpetual frown with the pad of his thumb, shivers at the way his warm breath stutters against his hand.

“Missed you too, Eddie," he says, meaning it more than he could explain.

They take a bag each and head out to parking to clamber into Mike’s car, fiddling with loose buckles and ancient knobs before cruising away. Eddie insists on using his phone’s GPS to lead them back to the five acre property, not trusting Richie’s sense of direction despite him being the only one to have been there already. The robotic voice directs something obvious every few minutes, so Eddie has no problem speaking over it once Richie engages him in conversation.

They discuss the dangers of the fire pit Richie wants to place in his tiny backyard and the minor dent in Eddie’s Escalade that’s still driving him crazy and how stupid they all must be to think they’re capable of throwing together an entire Thanksgiving dinner in Mike’s ill-equipped kitchen when everyone has different ideas and culinary capabilities. They gossip about what kind of letter Mister “My Heart Burns There Too” Hanscom might have sent Tom Rogan to get him to stop harassing Beverly and whether or not Mike might start looking for dates instead of gators and if Bill is _really_ basing his newest characters off the Losers and their bizarre life experiences. They joke about Stan’s personal bird sanctuary and about how Eddie keeps getting stuck babysitting his neighbor’s fat cat and about all the terrible lines ("the fun's just beginning" isn't even the half of it) Bev and Stan and Eddie keep quoting from some of Richie’s old shows just to piss him off.

Richie brings up his (mostly feigned) bitterness over Eddie not letting him fly out for his forty-first birthday earlier in the month, to which Eddie counters by bringing up the boxes of gag gifts his PO Box had been flooded with.

“It’s not my fault you don’t see the beauty in Poo Pourri or pickle patterned boxers. I almost sent you a giant red dildo, but I have a little too much decency for that, so really, you’re welcome.”

“Oh, I wish you would’ve. Coulda been breaking it in with your sister instead of talking to your sorry ass.”

“Wow!” Richie barks out a laugh. “Roasted and toasted by my own darling dearest!”

“Speaking of roasted, seriously, what’d you do to your hair? And when? And _why?_ ”

“Damn, is it really that bad?”

Richie takes one hand off the wheel to twist some of the shorter strands roughly. The style still swoops slightly down over his giant forehead and the sides are still long enough to furl at the very tips, near his ears, and his sideburns are still very reminiscent of a 70s pornstar, but the back is pretty well chopped off and he’d gotten it trimmed all the way around, cutting the length and weight so it doesn’t look as thin near the hairline. It’s neater, in general, even when paired with his untamable scruff, and it’s not like he _loves_ it but he didn’t think it made him look _worse_ —

 _“No!”_ Eddie shouts, overly loud in the small car. “No, not _bad_. Just... weird, maybe? You look professional now, like you actually own a comb.”

“That’s what my publicist wanted, so at least she’ll be happy.” At Eddie’s confused head tilt, he adds: “I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I’ve got a couple interviews lined up for the first week of December. Everyone decided it’d be good if I showed some sort of physical change, to let people know things are gonna be different when I come back. I dunno. It’s stupid, but a haircut’s the least of my worries right now, so I thought _why not?"_

“Interviews. You haven’t done any since before—”

“Yeah.”

“Well… this is good, right? You do these interviews, you finish writing, and then you get up on stage and act like a genuine idiot instead of a stereotypical one.”

Richie chuckles, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

“Sounds like a dream when you say it like that.”

“And you saying _that_ makes it sound like a nightmare. What gives?”

“Nothing! Nothing gives!” He turns onto Wachoota Road, knuckles tightening around the wheel. “And I mean that, I do. I’m just—I’m usually fine with PR stuff, and it’s not like I’ve ever gotten personal with the Late Night hosts anyway. They’re pretty much distant cousins, in this weird comedy dog-pile, but a lot of things have always been off limits on every platform. For me, personally. So it’s not even like I’m gonna go out there and spill my fucking guts about what happened or where I’ve been or what I’m doing, I just have to talk about going in a new direction and feeling like a quote-unquote new man, and maybe sprinkle in some dick jokes because I’m still Trashmouth Tozier and that’s not going away. Who I’ve been these past few months… uh, this whole version of me is new and I’m not sharing it yet, but a lot of things got ripped out of me in—in Derry. That wall’s just not there anymore, so. It’s gonna be pretty damn difficult to sit in front of a camera and chill after everything. Plus, I’m _absolutely_ gonna get asked some things the Big Shots guaranteed Steve they wouldn’t bring up, that’s how this works, and I can bullshit with the best of ‘em—I’m a grade A, certified deflector—but I’ve recently discovered I have a really weak stomach when faced with, you know, _reality,_ and I can’t promise I won’t blow chunks if someone says something my whacked-out psyche takes as an attack.” He pauses for a deep breath and glances over at Eddie, who’s watching him intently, relatively concerned. “But I’m _fine_. I’m excited! Maybe not so much for the ‘answering a bunch of stupid questions for a ten minute segment’ thing, but—but for what comes next. Yeah.”

They reach the end of Mike’s long driveway, though Richie idles after he stops, lets the car continue to rumble beneath them as he chews on the inside of his cheek.

“Well, for what it’s worth, from someone who knows nothing about what you’re saying,” Eddie begins, unusually slow and thoughtful, “I think you’ll do great. Like, I can’t tell you specifically because you’re an insanely unpredictable person and there’s no fucking way I could pin a number on your success rate, but you know what you’re doing, Richie. You’ve done it before and you’ll do it again, probably hundreds of times. And if something really bad happens, I mean, these things are pre-taped, aren’t they? You’re loaded! They’ll cut shit out if you tell them to. And you can always threaten to sue the asses off everyone in the audience if you slip and say something you’re not ready for them to hear.” Richie rubs his forehead and laughs straight from his belly. Of _course_ Eddie’s special brand of comfort would include suggesting legal action be taken. “I’m just saying! You got this, Rich. You really don’t need to worry.”

“That’s hilarious coming from you, Edward ‘ _The King of Worrying_ ’ Kaspbrak.”

“That’s why I said _you_ don’t need to,” he clarifies with a haughty sniff. “I’ll freak out enough for both of us.”

“Okay, so, you’ll panic and I’ll cry?”

“Just as long as you don’t puke.”

He holds up his hand for a high-five, half expecting Stan to pop out from the backseat to lower it irritably, but Eddie smiles and slaps their hands together, palms meeting hard. Richie’s fingers are longer and the tips curl over Eddie’s nails, the jagged edges from climbing out of his impromptu grave three months prior having since been clipped and buffed to perfection.

They linger like this, arms suspended in the air, spread fingers slotting together like there’s nowhere else they were meant to be. It’s such an ingrained instinct to want to pull away and laugh it off, crack a joke about how Eddie’s small hands must mean he’s small somewhere _else_ , but it wouldn’t be funny, not while Eddie peers at Richie through low lids, lips parting and throat bobbing. And besides, Richie’s been up close and personal with a naked Eddie K and there is absolutely _nothing_ small downstairs. Definitely nothing to laugh about.

It’s a hard habit to crack, though not impossible to overcome when he feels the anchor of Eddie’s hand squeezing his. They’re _both_ awful at dealing with and expressing sincere emotions, without any masks to hide behind, but all the effort they’d put into communicating during those few uncertain months shows spectacularly in how they burrow themselves deeper into this moment rather than trying to skip over it.

“You good now? _Please_ say you are. I don’t have anything else to contribute. I suck at pep talks.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Richie replies, grinning like a smitten fool when Eddie keeps hold of his hand despite the scowl he shoots him. “But I appreciate it. If you ever need anything—”

“I know, you’re always here for me. Blah blah blah—”

“I was gonna tell you to ask Ben, actually. He’s a wizard when it comes to sappy shit like this.”

“Alright. Fuck you, too.”

Eddie swings their arms to punch Richie in the thigh with their connected fists. He laughs so hard he bangs his head on the window, leaving Eddie looking suitably satisfied.

“Hey, can I kiss you now?” Richie's heart leaps up into his throat after the words tumble out, but he lets them stay there, floating in the space between their bodies. Eddie’s eyes dart away from Richie’s briefly as he leans forward to cut the ignition.

“You’re wasting Mike’s gas, moron,” he says, and Richie will never know how anyone can make an insult sound quite so loving, but Eddie certainly can.

When he looks over at Richie again it’s with eyes that are big and dark and fervent, and he twists in his seat to face Richie full on, hollow cheeks dusted a pretty shade of pink. But Richie doesn’t get much time to admire him before he’s being dragged in by the shoulders with a firm mouth blanketing his warmly.

He doesn’t know if he wants to fall against Eddie or take the lead, so he does a weird combination of the two by tilting Eddie’s head to the position he wants and holding him there securely but allowing the kiss to be guided by Eddie’s desired flavor and pace. It’s slow and heady, the slide of their tongues and the tingle in their lips. His mind is nothing more than a warm buzz of pleasure.

Richie feels like a kid again, or maybe more like a kid than he ever had since those last few summers with the remaining Losers, making mistakes and discoveries and dreaming of exploring a world outside of Derry’s narrow walls and views. He’d never done anything like this, back then; had never felt so free, so peaceful, so adored. It’s new in that way, but familiar in all others, just like anything with Eddie is, and Richie sinks deeper into the emotions he spent all his life trying to hide and fight. Apparently Eddie had been doing the same damn thing, and yet here they are, necking like a couple of teenagers in a borrowed car, not eager at all to separate and head inside.

Richie moans shakily when Eddie tugs at his hair, twisting his knuckles into the strands that curl behind his ear. It’s all the permission he needs to touch back, so he does, rubbing a palm up and down the powerful length of Eddie’s closest thigh, nails scraping the seam of his stupidly sexy khaki chino pants, just beneath his groin. Eddie’s spine bows and he huffs a noise into Richie’s mouth that might’ve been a whine if it hadn’t gotten interrupted by Richie nibbling on his bottom lip.

Eddie should hate this on principle, having a tongue other than his own slipping past his teeth, mapping out the wet heat of his cavernous mouth with reverent determination, but he doesn’t seem to, not even for a second. He gives as good as he gets, which is nothing new, except the context is totally different. Instead of using their traps to tease and shout and cajole, they’re occupying them with _Frenching,_ with making each other hot and pliant and aching for more.

Richie is amazed, really, that Eddie wants this as bad as he does. He can’t believe that it’s Eddie who’s scrabbling at his biceps and shoulders, that it’s Eddie who’s sighing his name during their pauses for breath, that it’s Eddie who tries to drag him closer despite the cramped space of the car. He can’t believe it but it’s true, and he’s so thankful he nearly sobs with it, though no tears are actually involved.

“I didn’t know if I could, or like—I mean,” he babbles, barely able to get the words out as he’s gasping for air. “I didn’t know if—if you still—”

“Fuck’s sake, Richie,” Eddie heaves, exasperation undercut by a bubbling laugh, which turns into a sharp groan when Richie latches onto the lean column of Eddie’s throat for a bruising suck. “You know I—”

A knock on the window pushes them away from each other in record time.

It’s Stanley, of course, leaning down with a raised brow, peering at them unblinkingly through the glass like some kind of stony-faced voyeur. Richie shows him a middle finger, which prompts another knock, louder and more annoying than the first.

Eddie shoves the door open, clipping Stan before he can jump away. Richie doesn’t even pretend not to laugh.

“ _What?_ ”

“Oh, nothing,” Stan snips. “There are just a few people inside who’ve been waiting to see you, but by all means, continue taking your time. It’s not like we have anything better to do than sit around while you two play tonsil hockey.”

He smirks. Richie groans.

“Oh. Right.” Quick to anger, quicker to calm; that had always been Eddie’s natural rhythm and it’s no different now, puffed chest deflating in the face of Stan’s snappy declaration. He smiles softly down at Eddie after a beat and waits patiently for him to clamber out and straighten up before offering a one-armed hug. “Hey, Stan. How’re you doing? Was your flight as terrible as mine?”

Richie hides a laugh against the collar of his jacket at the forced casualness of Eddie’s tone. He takes his time pulling out the luggage and dropping them at their feet so Eddie and Stan can exchange a few pleasantries, then he carries both bags over to the SUV and, with Stan's interference, manages to get them into the trunk at an angle that works, _Tetris_ style.

The front door rattles and flattens against the side of the house as the rest of the Losers stream out, no doubt having heard their footsteps coming up the path. It’s Bev leading the charge again, just like when Richie had arrived, and although she doesn’t fling herself at Eddie she _does_ stand toe-to-toe with him, her arms held wide and waiting.

Eddie accepts all the hugs and greetings thrown his way with crinkled eyes and a sappy smile, happy to be back with the people he loves and who love him in return. They know not to linger too long, so they whisk him away inside, snickering only slightly when he launches into a rant about work after Mike innocently asks it's been treating him. Richie is bringing up the rear with Ben, who leans in to whisper: “Looks like Eddie didn’t hate your new hair after all, huh?”

Richie blinks and flushes, reaching up to flatten the mess Eddie had surely made in his eagerness. Ben simply smiles, kind and proud, patting Richie on the back and closing the door behind them, the sound of mingling laughter drifting over from around the corner.

***** * *** **

Richie sits perched on the arm of a leather couch, hunched forward so he can balance upright with one arm on his thigh and the other on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie’s a little stiff where he’s sitting, slouched against a squishy cushion at the very edge, but he’s got his fingers tucked beneath Richie’s knee, palm splayed against his calf. He smiles absently at Ben’s attempt to get them talking about who’s going to do what and why.

“I nominate Ben for turkey duty!” Richie calls, holding his hand up and glancing around eagerly. 

“Seconded!” Stan swiftly agrees.

Everyone except Patricia and Mike join in, neither of them eager to put that burden on anyone, but they remain far outnumbered. Ben sighs loudly, only slightly put-out, and agrees nevertheless. 

“I used to help my mom and aunt with a lot of cooking for the holidays. It’s not a big deal. But we might have to shop around a bit, you know? We’re cutting it kind of close… most stores might be sold out of fresh ones by now.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Eddie shifts to face the others in the room, left hand sliding down to Richie’s ankle as the right one bisects the air. “But we have to be really careful with poultry, guys. Don’t just check the dates on the label, you need to ask the manager how long ago they actually got them delivered because you _know_ they try to sell old shit first, especially when they don’t have enough supply for the demand, and look at the packaging! If it’s loose or leaking don’t even _think_ about bringing it back here. That shit’s not only gross, it could realistically kill us.” 

“Salmonella is very common,” Stan says with a nod. “Cross contamination is a big issue, Ben. You need to be careful when handling it.”

“I literally just said I’ve done this before, but alright—”

“Maybe Eddie and I should help with the—”

“Boys,” Bev admonishes, playful but firm. “Majority ruled in favor of Ben cooking the turkey, so let him do it his way. We’ll all be fine.”

“Okay, well, the general consensus is twenty minutes per pound, but it depends on the temperature and oven and—”

“Eddie,” Ben sighs. “Trust me, I know.”

“And also, I call dibs on mashed potatoes.”

A chorus of disagreements erupts immediately. 

“Come on, man.” Richie flicks Eddie’s ear, grinning when he receives a slap to the hand and a glare. “That’s the easiest thing to do.”

“No it’s not! It’s _not!”_

“It totally is. It takes, like, five minutes of work once the potatoes are cooked—”

“It takes longer if you don’t want fucking lumps in them! And you have to season shit, Richie, and I don’t just mean with salt—”

“What do _you_ know about seasoning? You’re allergic to everything, _allegedly_ —”

“Fuck off, asshole! _Someone_ has to do potatoes so it might as well be me.”

“I think you just like smashing shit ‘cause you’re a little ball of anger. It’s therapeutic for you.

“ _I’m_ doing them. If anyone has a problem with that, they better say so now.”

Stan raises an arm in the air slowly, keeping a straight face the whole time, the shit starter, but Patty huffs and tugs it back down. Richie grins at her, feeling vindicated now for all the times Stan had done the same to him, especially when Patty smiles and shakes her head.

“Alright. Good.” Eddie relaxes again, arms crossing over his chest. Richie mourns the loss of the warm grip on his leg for a moment. “What’re you gonna do then?”

He pauses for dramatic effect, waiting until all eyes, including Eddie’s, settle on him in silent expectation.

“Crudités,” he states seriously, but Eddie whips around to gape and all Richie can do is dissolve into a fit of giggles, holding his stomach as Eddie explodes.

“Oh, _mashed potatoes_ are the easiest dish but not fucking _crudités?_ No, _no!_ That’s a fucking appetizer, Richie! It’s fucking _vegetables_ you cut up and put on a platter! You’re not doing that!”

“ _Honey,_ Eds...” Beverly coos through a snorting laugh. “You know he’s messing with you but you _still_ take the bait. That’s so sweet.”

“It’s a mating ritual,” Mike teases. “We shouldn’t disturb nature. Let’s look the other way.”

“Do _not_ even start with me right now, I swear to God—”

“No crudités!” Bill declares above the noise, red-faced and trembling. Audra’s rolling her eyes but she’s got a ghost of a smirk on her face, too. “Pick something else, Rich. Eddie might have an aneurysm otherwise.”

“That’s not fucking funny, Bill. My blood pressure’s been a real problem lately, in case you didn’t know, which actually _can_ give me an aneurysm, so if you’re gonna laugh about it then you better also be prepared to pay my fucking hospital bills—”

“Alright, alright! Take a chill pill, Eduardo.” Richie squeezes Eddie’s shoulder even as he teases him, trying to unwind him with some gentle sweeps of his thumb beneath Eddie’s clenched jaw. He keeps the action semi-hidden from the rest of the Losers by angling himself away, delighting in the full-body shiver his touch elicits from Eddie. “I’ll do a cake or something.”

“You bake?” Mike asks, eyebrows shooting up and mouth twisting into a smile.

“I’m basically a Master Chef in the kitchen.”

“It’s true,” Eddie says earnestly, basing his belief on nothing more than what he’d seen through videos and pictures.

Once he realized Richie was no slouch in the kitchen (fancy celebrity dinners only happened so often and take-out got stale pretty fast, so he really had no choice _but_ to learn, if he didn't want to gorge himself on cereal for the rest of his days), Eddie began to send Richie recipes he thought they’d both enjoy so he could practice making them ahead of Eddie’s arrival, whenever that might be, since Eddie himself had admitted to having an embarrassingly limited amount of skill in the kitchen for a man his age. 

It reminds Richie of how Eddie had started randomly asking the Losers for help in the group chat whenever he’d decide to focus on completing crossword puzzles from The New York Times. Stan, Mike, and Ben were usually the first to answer ( _nerds_ ), while Beverly shot off joking solutions that _seemed_ like they could be correct but weren’t and Bill tried to get all metaphorical with it. Richie would usually just make a crack about whatever someone else said, though there were occasions he answered seriously and accurately, especially when the others were momentarily stumped. That seemed to impress everyone, though Eddie most of all, and the praise he’d heap onto him later (only in their private messages) had Richie preening for hours after. It also had him suspecting that Eddie might have a _thing_ for Richie showing his competence, just like how Eddie absolutely had a _thing_ for their usual banter slowly shifting into something undeniably flirtatious.

It fills Richie with pride, whatever the case may be, and he smiles a little shyly when Eddie meets his gaze.

Stan rolls his eyes.

“Haven’t you ever heard the old saying ‘baking is a science, cooking is an art?’ It’s not exactly true, factually speaking, but the sentiment tells you all you need to know: just because you’re good at one doesn’t mean you’re good at the other. They’re two completely different things, Richie.”

“Well, I’m good at science _and_ art—”

“Yeah right, Trashmouth.”

“Geez, you think a guy named after Shakespeare would know comedy is one hundred percent as much of an art as your little doodles and ghost stories.”

“I wasn’t named after Shakespeare. That’s like me saying you were named after a dick just because other Richards choose to go by that.”

“Well, I probably _should_ be called Dick, to be fair, since I have such a massive one...” His eyes flit down to Eddie, a smirk slowly growing. Eddie’s cheeks turn a splotchy red in record time.

“Why are you looking at _me?!_ ”.

Ben and Mike cover their mouths to hide their laughter. Beverly cackles without a care in the world. 

“Trashmouth—” Bill tries, but even _he’s_ giggling so hard he begins choking on his words. Audra pats his back.

“Let’s not pretend you don’t _know_ what Richie’s talking about, Eds,” Beverly chimes in.

“Wha—my sex life is none of your business!”

“Ah, so you admit we’ve had sex!” Richie feels like an idiot once the words tumble out, slipping off the couch to dodge Eddie’s fists of fury. It a joke, of course, but it’s also the truth, and yes the Losers know this already—as well as Patty and Audra, by extension—but it’s still a weird thing to talk about in person, outside of just him and Eddie. He swallows the shame that tries to coat his throat and continues the fun. “You all heard it! No take-backs!”

“ _Shut the fuck up, Richie!_ ” Eddie hisses, shoulders hitching up around his ears. The fact that he doesn’t storm out means he’s not as upset as he’s pretending to be. Richie breathes a quiet sigh of relief. “Have you ever heard of _privacy?_ Actually, why don’t you tell everyone how big _Ben’s_ dick is, huh, Beverly?”

“Yes!” Audra blurts, leaving Bill looking scandalized. Richie drops to the floor with a howl and wipes a few tears out of the corners of his eyes. He calms a little when Eddie’s fingers slip into his hair to give a tug.

“Well, sure. It’s probably like...” Beverly holds up her forearm, running her fingers down the length of it, pretending to consider where she wants to stop for the comparison. 

“Okay! Let’s just—” Ben’s eyes are wide and his whole face is flushed pink the same way it’d get whenever Bev sat too close or teased him too sweetly. He pushes her arm down and presses a hand over her mouth. “Can we go back to talking about our Thanksgiving meal plans? _Please?”_

Stan takes pity on poor Ben by announcing his and Patty’s desire to make challah, chestnut, and dried fruit stuffing, prompting a renewed interest in the conversation they were supposed to be having. Mike decides on a nice skillet cornbread while Audra mentions a harvest salad with some sort of maple vinaigrette, and Bev tells everyone that she’ll be making the best pimento cheese dip anyone’s ever tasted, _plus_ some killer block island fog punch, the latter of which gets Richie extra pumped since his last taste of alcohol had been in Georgia. Bill settling on spiced cranberry sauce goes over about as well as the previous try for crudités, but he sticks to his guns. No one could ever deny Big Bill much for long and that’s still the case now, apparently. It doesn’t stop Richie from ragging on him a little bit, though.

But then Stan yawns not too long after they hash out the rest of the details, leading to a chain reaction of droopy eyes and unhinged jaws, and sooner rather than later Mike is saying goodnight to everyone and waving them off with a joyous proclamation of _see you tomorrow!_ Because that's a thing they can do now now. It's incredible. 

Eddie muscles his way to the Tahoe that’d been rented for them, tapping at his phone to pull up his GPS again from the driver’s seat. Beverly slips past Richie to call shotgun and she sticks her tongue out at him when he flips her off. But sliding into the seat behind Eddie isn’t so bad, not when he can kick the seat like a child and dangle his long arms near the headrest to play with Eddie’s tousled hair on the drive. He's pretty sure it's at least a little therapeutic for both of them. 

They make a pit-stop at a Subway on the way to the B&B for convenience, choosing to eat at a cluster of tables near the front window in a rather subdued manner. Eddie mumbles some kind of joke about how Patty’s sub is the only 6 inches she’s ever had inside her and Richie nearly chokes on a piece of roast beef, he laughs so hard. Bill, who’d been sitting directly behind Eddie, tattles on him immediately, causing Stan to throw a slice of tomato at the back of Eddie’s head, making him yell so loudly that they immediately rush out with most of their food still uneaten so they don’t get kicked out by an irate manager as they nearly piss themselves from the whole ordeal.

But they get where they’re going eventually, without further incident, offering each other sleepy murmurs as they collect their keys from the front desk and lug all their bags up to their individual rooms. 

It’s a beautiful place, really, Richie can tell that much just from passing through the entryway to climb the vast staircase. It’s warm and inviting, rich in an old way due to all the antique furniture and the overall historic atmosphere. There’s a scent of baked goods lingering in the air, the sound of old records drifting over from a gramophone nearby, and everything seems not only clean but also orderly. Richie’s going to have fun exploring the grounds in the morning, but for now all he can think about is showering and sleeping and maybe making out with Eddie for a little bit, before or after either of those first two things. He’s not picky.

Their room is nice. Simple. A lot more airy than he’d been expecting based on first impressions. There’s a floral theme, but not too heavy handed or feminine, done mostly in framed prints and blue patterns on the coverlet and curtains. The walls are white with a trim near the ceiling and the floor is probably some kind of oak, matching the small dresser at the foot of the bed as well as the two nightstands on either side, and balcony doors that lead out onto a porch.

“Smells like your mom in here,” he comments idly, catching a faint hint of must underneath all the lemon scented Pledge. “You know, minus the dirt and maggots and artificial creme filling.”

“Shut up, jackhole,” Eddie barks, unable to hide the queasy cough that follows. “Could you _not_ be disgusting or disrespectful of my dead mother for five entire minutes?” He powers through the room, dropping his bags near the dresser before making his way to the entrance of what must be the bathroom. “Holy shit!”

Richie shuts the main door with a click of the lock and flings his bags over by Eddie’s, his long legs taking him swiftly over toward where the other man stands. And yeah, _holy shit_ indeed, because he hadn’t exactly been expecting something so streamlined and modern—even with all the weird old-timey paintings hanging around—and also because there’s a fucking _walk-in shower_. There’s a tub, too, next to the toilet, though Richie thinks he probably wouldn’t fit into it that well, his knees would be up to his chin if he tried, but that walk-in… 

The bathroom is about as large as the master Richie has back in Chicago; maybe a little bigger, in fact, or less cluttered. He slips by Eddie to snap a picture he promptly posts in the group chat. Beverly replies with a look at what she’s been given: a room with beautiful geometric windows that Ben’s probably creaming himself over, with a lot of tiles and a lot of plants and a deep clawfoot tub sitting dead center. Not bad. Richie still thinks he and Eddie hit the jackpot though, especially since Bill and Stan don’t even bother replying.

“Shower. Right now,” Eddie mutters, stripping efficiently and shoving by to place his clothes on the pristine countertop. Richie's eyes grow comically wide as he stares, partly in open shock and partly in untamable interest. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Uh, yeah, uh—” He clears his throat and blinks, heart picking up speed at the sight of Eddie in his tiny gray briefs. “What do you need me to do?”

“Could you get the body wash out of my toiletry bag? It’s in a black bottle. And the shampoo, the one with a purple label? And two washcloths!”

Richie nods dumbly, banging his shoulder on the way out the door, and races to grab the aforementioned items. Eddie’s fully naked upon Richie’s return and, while Richie had burned that view into his head three months prior, seeing it in person again is nothing short of magnificent. He stands there gawking for a moment, then tries to act like he hadn’t been when Eddie turns under the spray to meet his eye. He chuckles lowly, just a snuffle of a noise, shifting slightly toward the wall like he’s suddenly shy, and Richie would apologize for his unneeded lecherousness if it weren’t for the way Eddie says:

“Well? Are you gonna get naked or what?”

Richie nearly swallows his tongue.

“Oh, you—you want to, like, together?”

“Well, yeah.” Eddie spins back around again, hands clenching into fists at his sides, probably to stop himself from covering his junk on instinct. He blinks a few times, lashes stuck together from the water cascading over him, hair matted to his forehead, and frowns. “Unless _you_ don’t want to? Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve assumed, I just thought—”

“No! No, I definitely want to! I definitely— _fuck_ , yes, wait!”

Richie shoves everything into Eddie’s slippery hands so he can kick off his shoes and wriggle out of his clothes, not caring about picking them up off the floor. His glasses and phone are the only things he sets on the counter, right on top of Eddie’s neatly folded shirt.

He’s feeling a little self-conscious, admittedly, when he shuffles bare beneath the waterfall, getting soaked to the bone and probably looking like a mangy mutt in the process (at least he knows that Eddie has a soft spot for dogs), but he feels a little silly too as he squints and tries to figure out what to do with his hands. He’s grateful for the soapy rag Eddie gives him and immediately gets to work scrubbing himself down so he isn’t caught ogling again.

As they work in the quiet of the hissing spray, Richie wonders, not for the first time, if he should bring up an idea he first had a few weeks back when Eddie Skyped him with Google Maps open on his laptop and Richie’s neighborhood typed into the search bar. He’d been looking up things like crime rates and property taxes, which led to him digging into what bank he’d want to use and who his PCP would end up being and whether or not a Rite Aid was in walking distance, just in case. He seemed excited about Shabonna Park and asked Richie questions he couldn’t really answer, seeing as he’d only been there a few times himself, then made him promise to go with him to test out all of their facilities.

It’d been his tone that caught Richie off guard. How wistful it seemed. And Richie remembers thinking… why wait? Eddie probably wouldn’t be able to move in until mid-2017, which was fine, but part of Richie still worried about him coming all the way out and then immediately leaving because he hated living with Richie and _being_ with Richie, and it was a fucking nightmare that occurred almost as often as the ones where Eddie died and stayed dead. 

So, he thought, why couldn’t Eddie come visit first? It didn’t seem like such a big thing to ask, but he felt weird about it regardless and hadn’t wanted to start that type of conversation over the phone.

“Hey, Space Case,” Eddie says quietly, swiping some wet strands away from Richie’s forehead. “Wash your dick or I’m not gonna touch it later.”

“How the fuck are you like this?” Richie asks with a bubbly laugh. “I knew you always had a mouth on you, but Jesus Christ, Eddie, you were way more repressed than I was _and_ married to a woman. Still are, in fact—”

“Okay, how ‘bout you _don’t_ mention that while we’re both naked,” Eddie admonishes. His usually sun-kissed skin looks pale in the bathroom light, his cheeks and lips an enticing shade of red from the heat and pressure of the shower, his dark hair looking jet black compared to the white suds resting on top. God, he’s like fucking Snow White or some shit, all gorgeous and sweet; you’d never expect the fire underneath, even though you can see the flames simmering in the shiny depths of his round doe eyes. Richie would be jealous if he weren’t so pleased by the fact that Eddie—in all his adorable, tiny, temperamental, firecracker glory—is _his_. “You talk a big talk but now you have to put your money where your mouth is—”

“I’d rather put something _else_ where my mouth is—”

“See! You say that but you’re blushing like a fucking virgin, Rich!”

Richie huffs, smacking Eddie’s hands away, prying the rag from his fingers. He stares at Eddie’s sternum—the prominent collarbones above, the smattering of hair below—as he begins to gently massage the webbed scar across his torso. He puts all his focus into the task. All his love.

“And anyway,” Eddie says, quiet and distracted, after a moment of staring. “I’m done wasting time, I keep telling you that. It’s not like I don’t have hang-ups or worries or whatever, obviously I do, but after everything… it just doesn’t really matter. It can't." Yeah, Richie gets that. If what they'd gone through put things into perspective for Richie, he can only imagine how much it changed Eddie's whole point of view. "So I’m gonna say what I want and do what I want and _think_ what I want, if that’s okay with you.”

“‘Course it is, Eds.” His path takes him a little lower, to the happy trail that has Richie’s throat going dry, a tendril of heat curling in his belly. He’s _weak_ and looks directly at the goods that aren’t so forbidden for longer than a blink now, really admiring the view for the first time since the _last_ time they’d been together. Eddie isn’t as long as Richie, especially not while he’s hanging flaccid against a muscular thigh, but he _is_ thicker. His pubic hair’s also neatly trimmed—because of course it is—and Richie snorts at the realization, shaking his head when he receives a quirked brow in reply. “Turn around?”

Eddie does as he’s told, which gives Richie a second to breathe, but _only_ a second considering the tight ass that’s now on full display. He snaps his eyes up to the scar on Eddie's back that matches the front, focusing entirely on cleaning that area and kneading the skin around it, smiling softly to himself when Eddie slumps and sighs.

“So. I had an idea.”

“Suspicious, but okay.”

“Well, I was thinking, like, you know… maybe you should take a few days off and come visit Chicago? You could check out the house, if you stayed with me, since it’ll be yours too if things go well, and it’d be like—like a trial run of living together! I can give you the special Tozier Tour, satisfaction guaranteed. And you can get a feel for all those places you’ve been researching, live and in person. Just to see if it’s everything you want. Because it might not be. You might actually hate it.”

Eddie glances at a fidgety Richie from over his shoulder, forehead wrinkled with a deep frown. 

“Do you _want_ me to hate it?”

“What? No, no, why would I—”

“Are you having second thoughts, is what I mean,” Eddie interrupts, and his tone isn’t quite accusatory but it _is_ cautious, which Richie hates. “I’d… I’d understand, if you were. I know I’ve kind of been a handful without even being in the same state, so if you—”

“Eddie. _Eddie_. It’s not that at all. I mean, you definitely _are_ a handful, you annoying little shit, but I love it. I love _you_. I’m just—” Richie squeezes his eyes shut and groans. He can hear Eddie’s feet slapping against the tile as he spins around. “I want you with me all the time, but I don’t want you uprooting your life without being one thousand percent sure it’ll be permanent. And I don’t want you waking up one day thinking I was the biggest mistake you ever made, okay? I mean, technically I guess your—I guess Myra would be the biggest mistake you’ve ever made—literally, ‘cause she’s—” He holds his hands out at his sides and puffs out his cheeks, peeking one eye open to catch Eddie’s pinched expression, the disapproval in his glare. “Sorry, sorry. Forget I said that. Let’s go back to the visiting thing.”

“Richie…” Eddie says it so softly it makes his heart clench. “You fucking asshole.”

“Well, geez, Eduardo. Tell me how you really feel! I'm seriously trying here but this is the thanks I get?”

His joking protestations die on the tip of his tongue when Eddie’s hands come up to cradle his face, thumbs swiping tenderly across his cheekbones. Richie shivers even though the water rolling over him is still very much warm. 

“You’re brilliant, you know that?” His eyes are so big and earnest, drilling holes straight to Richie’s bone marrow. He forgets, sometimes, that underneath all the scoffing and name-calling is a man who not only has a _thing_ for Richie using even the smallest bit of his brain, but also genuinely _cares_ for him. He could cry. He just might. 

No one told him he'd grow up to be a big baby bitch.

“I might be,” he says, only half as smug as usual. If he were a cartoon character there’d be giant pink hearts springing from his eye sockets. And probably also a tongue lolling out of his mouth that would give Gene Simmons a run for his money.

“Like, Jesus Christ, how did I _not_ think of that already? I’ve been so freaking busy, it never even crossed my mind but it should’ve. Being proactive is something I’m supposed to be _good_ at.”

“Come on, man.” He nudges Eddie’s palms. They squeeze his face for a second to make him look like a fish. “If you could guess everything that might happen before it did—”

“You mean, if I could do my _job_ —”

“ _And_ could fix it all up nice with a big red bow, you’d basically be a superhero. And that’s way too much for this world to handle—carnivorous clowns from outer space aside. So don’t be too hard on yourself, alright?”

Eddie’s face softens even more, if possible. He slides his grip up from Richie’s jaw to tangle his fingers in the wet waves at his nape. 

“You’re the one who’s hard on himself.” One sharp look stops him from making a sex joke. “A _mistake_ , Richie? _Really?_ Fuck off. If I’m sure about anything, it’s you, okay?” He nods several times in response, not trusting his voice to be steady. The crow’s feet around Eddie’s eyes become more prominent with his sunny smile, leaving Richie feeling slightly hypnotized. “I’ve got a lot of vacation days saved up still and pretty much all of December doing nothing except fighting my inner Scrooge.”

“Are you suggesting we spend Christmas _together_ , Eds?” Richie teases, mouth stretching wide. He leans a little closer to get a better look at Eddie’s expression, as blind as he currently is. He cups the back of his neck, right at the knob of his spine, to keep him near, their slow breaths mingling. “That’s some Hallmark bullshit, dude.”

“Well, you’ve got interviews at the start of the month, right? And I have to give _some_ kind of notice before I take off, so Christmas is really just convenient, but if that’s too much—”

“No, it’s perfect,” Richie says firmly. He presses his forehead to Eddie’s, eyes fluttering shut when Eddie tips up into the touch. “I was gonna say ‘ _and you’re perfect’_ but that’d be pretty gay, huh?”

“Maybe, maybe not. _This_ definitely would be, though.”

Eddie kisses Richie, then, like he was made to do it. He kisses Richie like they’ve had a lifetime of practice, like he never wants to stop. He kisses Richie like it’s the only thing keeping him _alive_.

It’s wet and unhurried, somewhat chaste for their current state of undress but nowhere near passionless, and Richie falls into it without a second thought, matching the fervor and capturing Eddie in a secure embrace, where he holds him long after they stop.

“Yeah,” he squeaks, the tip of his nose brushing Eddie’s, still so cute after all this time. “That was super gay.”

And then they dive back in for a kiss that leaves them both trembling.

They stay that way for a while. Not long enough to turn awkward, just long enough to savor it, really only separating when Richie’s lips stretch so wide it becomes impossible to do anything other than smash their teeth together. Their hands linger at every point they touch, until the water makes them pruny and they pull apart completely, using opposite ends of the shower to finish washing off. They’re both so relaxed by the end of it that Eddie doesn’t even complain about using a towel provided by the B&B to dry off. They’re plush and stark white, able wrap around Richie’s waist and land all the way down to his knees with quite a lot of fabric to spare. 

Eddie drops another towel on top of Richie’s head, encouraging him to fluff his hair so the ends don’t drip. He slips his glasses on after a couple fast passes and picks up his phone to read the messages he’d gotten while busy. Most of them are Stanley reminding everyone to make thorough shopping lists for their upcoming trip. Richie replies with a mocking example:

_eddie’s list: potatoes_

_bill’s list: ocean spray cranberry sauce_

_ben’s list: turkey_

Eddie sends a middle finger emoji as he follows Richie out to the main room, which is a little bizarre but also a little hilarious. 

Bill finally responds to claim that _no one_ is too good for canned cranberry sauce and that adding orange zest and various spices is somehow _important_ and _precise._ Ben tells Richie that they can switch menu options, if he’d like to trade an unspecified cake recipe for the quote-unquote _honor_ of cooking the main event. _Pffft_. Yeah, no thanks. Mike, a saint, ignores the back and forth in favor of informing them that he’d like some help picking out all of the necessary cookware, most of which he doesn’t already own. Richie’s in the midst of telling Bill to make himself useful by accompanying Mike on his quest to become the next Martha Stewart when he catches sight of Eddie flopping onto the bed, still tantalizingly bare beneath the towel he holds snug around his lower half.

“Did you ask the owners when the last time they did a full strip-down was?”

“No.” Eddie glares. There’s barely any heat in it. “I’m too comfy to worry about that kind of shit right now.”

“ _Comfy,”_ Richie imitates with a wave of his hand. “So, what? We having a naked slumber party in here?”

Eddie spreads out on his side of the bed, draping one of his arms over the top of his head, unwittingly flexing that very enticing bicep. Richie bites the inside of his cheek. 

He doesn't get an answer, just a dark stare, so he shrugs after a tick and climbs onto the mattress, crawling over Eddie’s legs to flop down onto the decorative pillow.

Or that’s what Richie _would_ do if Eddie didn’t shove the flat of his foot against his chest, snickering when it knocks him off balance. He tries to move again and receives a jab to the jaw from a big toe.

“Knock it off,” he huffs, but Eddie’s smirk never fails to fill him with glee. Richie catches the shift of a tan leg followed by a slender foot rushing closer, ready to strike. He grips the arch reflexively, holding it still, and places a smacking smooch to the inside of his ankle before shoving it away.

Eddie hums and grabs him then, tugging gently on his wrist to guide him forward. Richie takes the hint and slots between Eddie’s thighs, lowering himself until they’re tummy-to-tummy and chest-to-chest, dicks twitching when their towels slip and fall. Eddie makes a strange garbled noise, almost as if he were about to speak but decided it against it. Richie assumes _kiss me_ are the words he would have heard, so he cranes his neck to do just that.

He groans against Eddie’s lips, feeling them part pliantly, his tongue grazing Richie’s palate. It turns sloppy after a few slick passes, both of them angling their heads to encourage something deeper. Richie looms over Eddie, his chin dropping closer to his chest as he hunches and wraps one big hand around Eddie’s jaw to force his head up, exposing the long column of his throat to Richie’s dancing fingertips.

Richie and Eddie feed from each other in most instances, thriving off chaotic energies and intricate bonds, and intimate moments like these have proven to be extra intense because of that. A lot of it has to do with trust, Richie knows, which is something he’d always struggled with. No matter how much he loved and relied on the other Losers there were always pieces of himself he could never share, not even with Eddie ( _especially_ not with Eddie), but so much has changed since then—since his childhood, since _three freaking months ago_.

This, right here, is a vulnerability he never allowed himself to have before, not until he found it with Eddie in the blurry remnants of their old hometown. He’s completely open like this, to all the benefits and pitfalls of love and sexuality in a way that’s practically symbiotic, and not only is it accepted from him but also evenly matched _for_ him, with Eddie keening into his mouth and clawing at his shoulders, hauling Richie impossibly closer by a handful of hair.

He would take this and nothing else for the rest of his life, if that’s what it came to, and _still_ be the happiest man in the universe at the end, but Eddie—judging by the way he rips the towels away from their waists to fling them to the floor, bucking his hips against Richie’s abdomen in search of deliciously taunting friction—seems to want _more,_ and who is Richie to deprive him of anything ever?

He restrains himself with what little willpower he has, not going straight for Eddie’s dick but roving his hands over Eddie’s sides, hips, and thighs instead, groping and rubbing and scratching at the seemingly endless expanse of firm skin being presented to him, dark patches of coarse hair tickling his palms.

Eddie squirms beneath Richie and reciprocates those greedy touches with his own frantic strokes, knuckles and fingertips mapping the soft grooves of Richie’s body in a stunning sort of awe that stops him from staying in one place too long, driving Richie crazy off the jump.

“ _Whoa there, buddy,_ ” he pretends to protest when Eddie grips and kneads his ass. He shivers and chokes on a breathy laugh when he’s led into a slow, deliberate grind. Eddie grins, the sweetness of it contrasting with his lusftul undulations, and he fire in Richie's stomach rages.

His lids slip closed as Eddie latches onto his scruffy throat for a brutal bite, hands flitting over the rough ridges of Eddie’s scar, his solid pecs, his pebbled nipples. He buries his face into the semi-dried hair on Eddie’s head to inhale that familiar lavender shampoo, sighing shakily into the crook of his shoulder where he presses a series of nibbles and licks, marking him as _his_ and being marked in return.

Eddie does a good job of balancing Richie’s odd mix of desires, fueling his arousal with deep kisses and rolling hips while also sating his need for tenderness with prolonged eye contact and sweet whispered chants of his name. Richie’s a fucking mess and can _feel_ tears stinging his eyes already, but he lets them pool without hiding his face because Eddie is holding him close and gasping against his jaw and shit like this is everything he’s ever wanted, times one thousand.

It’s just… Eddie is so damn _cute_ and _sexy_ and _beautiful_ and _handsome;_ he’s funny, annoying, kind, smart, brave, loyal, moody, tender, rude. He’s _everything_. The whole nine yards. And Richie doesn’t know how this is happening ( _Again! For like the fourth time in total!_ ) or why he deserves it (although, after all he’s been through, maybe it’s not so far-fetched), but he knows he would fight Pennywise on a loop for the rest of his life if it were the only way to keep this. (He crosses his toes as that thought drifts through, content to _not_ jinx himself just because he has a flair for the dramatics and an all-encompassing love for the man wriggling against him.)

“Ri _chie_ ,” Eddie sighs, stuttering on the second syllable when Richie grinds down. “Richie, can we try something?”

“Yeah, yeah, anything,” he finds himself saying without hesitation. “What—ah, what do you—”

“I wanna, um…” His face is red and it clearly isn’t only due to stimulation. “Just—” He scoots up the bed a little more, situating the pillows beneath his head to assure he’s propped up halfway. “Come here.”

Richie blinks slowly, stupidly, when Eddie pats high on his chest, not quite sure what he’s being told to do.

“What?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, cheeks puffing in frustration.

“Get on your knees,” he says, making Richie’s stomach flutter. He gets on all fours, still hovering, and freezes with a hitched breath when Eddie reaches for the backs of his thighs, right below his ass, and tugs. “Come _here,”_ he repeats irritably.

Richie digs his fingers into the wrinkled fabric beneath their bodies.

“Are you—are you trying to get me to _fuck_ your _face?”_ He laughs incredulously even though the very idea has him growing impossibly harder. He'd squeeze himself for some relief if he didn't think he'd shoot off like a rocket.

“What’s so fucking funny, asshole?” Eddie demands. “You don’t think I can do it?”

“Eddie—” He can’t believe Eddie’s even _saying_ this to him. That lustful disbelief is easily reflected in his strangled voice. “I mean, you’ve never blown anyone before, right? You can’t just—”

“If you don’t want to you don’t have to, that’s totally fine, but you do _not_ get to tell me what I can and can’t do, Rich.”

“I _wasn't_ — ”

“I know it’s something I should work up to,” he interjects, “but I did some research—”

“Kinky bastard.”

“And it’s something I want to try, okay? And maybe you think that’s dumb because I’d be giving up control, which seems kinda counter-intuitive after all I’ve been doing to get back my own reins, but if you think about it… like, really, I _would_ be in control. By choosing to let you take over. That’d be _my_ decision. And I know you’ll stop the second I tell you to. Plus, honestly, let's be real, _you're_ the one who's more likely to feel vulnerable in this type of situation, since you’re a sentimental crybaby—”

“Oh, fuck off, you rude hobbit-sized bitch.”

“It's not a bad thing!" Eddie assures, ignoring the insult. "It's actually really, really good. Sweet. But I—" He sets his jaw and shakes his head. "You never used to treat me with kid gloves, Richie, that’s one of the reasons we worked so well. ‘Cause you _knew_ I could handle anything you dished out and even when I couldn’t you were still the first to know I’d always bounce back, so don’t start acting like I’m suddenly too fragile to do shit like this. Please.”

Sighing loudly, Richie dangles his head to stare down at the lines marring Eddie’s chest, ducking to mouth at them. His glasses slide down his nose so he pushes them up with his shoulder and peeks over the rim to scan Eddie’s expression. He looks determined, above all else, but also a little nervous. Maybe even slightly disappointed, like he thinks Richie will refuse him. Fat chance.

“I know all that,” Richie breathes. “I fucking _know_ , Eddie, alright? You stubborn asshole. I’m just— _ugh_. I want you to, _okay_ , don’t get me wrong. You sucking my dick is something I’ve jerked off too like a thousand times, but this is… are you sure you can’t pick another position?”

“I could, I guess,” Eddie says with a shrug, absently caressing Richie’s forearms. “If that’s what you want, then yeah.”

“But it’s not what _you_ want,” he surmises, and that’s all Richie really needs to know. _“Fuck_. Alright, let's do it then, I'm down. The only reason I was kind of, uh—I just… I don’t wanna hurt you, man.”

“You _won’t_. You'd never hurt me.”

“Okay, yeah." He clears his throat. "But I’m also maybe worried about the fact that we’re giving each other this kind of control? I know I won’t actually _have_ any once we get started. Like, you’re gonna have to lie there and take it, sure, but you’ll basically be playing me at the same time, giving me shit like that when—”

 _When you could so easily take it away_.

Richie thinks Eddie, whose face does that adorable softening thing he won't ever get used to, knows what he’s getting at without having to actually say it. He reaches for Richie with careful hands, dragging him down at the same time he lifts himself up to guide them into a tender kiss. Richie smooths his thumb over Eddie’s cheek.

"You trusted me in Derry, Rich. Trusted me not to hurt you, right? Trusted me to give you what you wanted. Trusted _yourself_ to take what you needed from me." 

And yep, Richie very clearly remembers being completely at Eddie's mercy, cock trapped between the mattress and his stomach with gloved, lubed fingers jammed up his ass. He'd been too anxious and embarrassed, being on the receiving end of _that_ for the first time, to worry about cumming prematurely. But Eddie was with him the whole time, freaking out almost as much as Richie, and when he finally rolled him onto his back and sunk slowly, slowly home… he'd been in control still, physically, but Richie had felt _powerful_ in an emotional sense, knowing how much he'd been wrecking Eddie without even _doing_ anything; by just being there and offering himself, by understanding what it meant to be a _partner_ in something that was loving and long-term, wanting to give that back tenfold.

Maybe that's what Eddie’s after—finding that type of strength within a perceived weakness, a sliver of bravery within a stagnant fear. Maybe getting Richie to do this one thing is a small step toward something greater. Maybe it’s another way for them to bask in their old-new shared existence.

Richie’s anxieties shrink and deflate.

“I’m trusting you here, pretty much the same way. With all of it. So I need you to trust _me_ again, alright? Are you with me?”

"Yeah," Richie breathes, feeling almost overloaded by both past and present. "I… shit, _yeah_ , I am."

"Good." Eddie smiles, close-lipped and fond, dimples on full display. Richie whines helplessly when he adds: “Now come up here and fuck my face before I change my mind.”

“ _Fiiiiine_ , you little— _ah._ ” Richie grunts as he lifts and shuffles up the bed, up Eddie’s body, squeezing the base of his cock in an attempt to calm down. “I’m not gonna go hard or anything, so don’t ask. And like, I dunno, pinch me if you wanna stop, okay?”

“Okay.”

Richie scrutinizes Eddie dubiously as he creeps closer, trying hard not to show how excited he’s starting to feel. Eddie gets comfortable against the pillows and stares at Richie with lidded eyes, hands coming up to rest on the small of his back when the wet tip of Richie’s dick ghosts against his bottom lip.

“Start me off?”

With a big gulp of air and some harsh blinks, Eddie nods once and leans forward, flicking his gaze up toward Richie’s face while his tongue pokes out to lick at the underside of Richie’s cock. He shivers and grits his teeth, bowing his back to shift his hips nearer, making the reach a little easier. Eddie licks again and again and again, brows furrowing in concentration, nose scrunching at the taste of precum. He swirls his tongue around the silky tip a few times, getting his cupid’s bow jabbed by a reflexive thrust after dipping down into the weeping slit.

It’s too soon for Richie to fall apart, but the image below him is something not even his wildest dreams could have imagined. Eddie’s hair is a mess and he's sporting something a thin layer of stubble below the flush that's overtaken his face, dark eyes fully black with how blown his pupils are. His shoulders look unusually broad against the pillows, biceps taut, hairy forearms straining. He’s holding Richie’s hips now, fingers digging into the prominent bones there, and his chest begins rising with swift, shallow breaths as he opens his mouth just wide enough for his lips to wrap around the head.

“Oh _, God_ ,” Richie groans, biting on his tongue like he might swallow it otherwise. He can’t help but stare down glassily at Eddie, who looks up at him through thick lashes, cheeks hollowing when he begins to suckle gently. “ _Jesus Christ_.”

Richie splays his hands against the wall, fingertips brushing the photo frames hanging above the headboard. He tilts his hips an inch and then another, sliding past Eddie’s teeth with a high-pitched moan, brain turning to static when the wet heat of Eddie’s mouth grows tighter around his throbbing erection. He allows Eddie to guide him in for more, balls tightening the closer his pelvis gets to meeting Eddie's chin, though he watches his expression as carefully as he can in such a hazy state to make sure he's taking it gingerly. He’s about halfway inside when Eddie finally spasms and gags, and it sounds so violent that Richie immediately tries to jerk back, but Eddie holds him in place, eyeing him defiantly, and sucks harshly, causing a pulse of pain to shoot through Richie alongside the aching pleasure. He's surprised to find that he likes it more than he should.

It gets him moving, in any case; body rolling with short thrusts that steadily grow wider until he’s pulling out to the tip and shifting back in up to the middle of his shaft, choking Eddie only periodically. Richie’s whole body shudders when, after dropping his hands from the wall and grabbing Eddie’s arms to circle his grip tightly around thin wrists, he receives a trembling moan from Eddie, who is momentarily at his mercy; a moan that rumbles in his chest and shoots sparks straight through Richie’s dick.

He speeds up, huffing and whining, sweat dripping into his widened eyes. His reaction is so desperate, so instinctual, that it swirls something in Eddie's gaze that causes him to crane his neck until he swallows Richie down fully, right to the hilt. Frantic groans tear through them both, echoing in the bedroom, sending Richie's simmering blood into a full boil.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Eddie— _Eddie!_ S’good, so good. Baby, I can't, _hah_ —”

His glasses are fogging but he can still watch Eddie’s face, can clock the second his lashes flitter, casting long shadows over his cheekbones, and his eyes roll slowly into his head. Richie's calves bracket Eddie’s waist and he feels rather than sees when Eddie’s lower half twitches, thrusting into open air in a plea. He struggles weakly against the hold Richie has on his arms, tugging and twisting but never using any real amount of force to break free.

Eddie _likes_ it, he thinks; likes giving himself to Richie just as much as Richie likes giving himself to Eddie, so totally and completely, and that alone sends a hoard of tingles rushing up and down his spine, has him snapping his hips at a pace that proves Eddie's taking back control while Richie quickly loses it. An extension of the peculiar push and pull they’ve always had.

“ _Eddie…_ ” he murmurs roughly, and although he isn’t going particularly fast or hard he can still feel his orgasm creeping up on him like a tidal wave, lapping at his nerves, on the verge of crashing thanks to Eddie relaxing his jaw and humming around his length. He’s squirming more than before now, too; chest hitting Richie's ass on an arch.

"Eddie, baby, m'close— ** **"****

Eddie blinks, a tear slipping out of the corner of his eye from the strain, and then he yanks an arm away to pinch Richie on the little paunch of his stomach, the sting making him hiss before pulling out immediately.

“ _Goddamit,_ ” Eddie croaks, thick and raspy and _raw_. Richie squeezes his dick again and slams his lids shut to stop from unloading on Eddie as he gasps, “Richie, _shit._ ”

"Yep, sounds about right. You good?” Richie falls back onto his haunches, which has him practically sitting on nicely defined _abs_ , and takes a moment to catch his breath.

“Richie, I wanna fuck you,” Eddie says in one breath, low and irresistible. Richie, flashing once again to the night they’d shared at the Derry Town House—so full of Eddie, surrounded by him, comforted when the shame crept in, loved when the pleasure consumed him—grows dizzy from arousal. “But neither of us is gonna last that long.”

“Yeah, nuh-uh, so I’ll just—what the hell, hold on.”

Richie inhales deeply and scoots to the side, pulling at Eddie’s legs to situate them so his feet are flat on the mattress and his knees are pointed toward the ceiling. He gathers an excess amount of saliva in his mouth, not at all a difficult task with Eddie laying so obscenely in front of him, and bends back until he can feed Eddie past his lips in one fell swoop, not stopping until his nose is buried in trimmed pubes and his throat is convulsing around the pulsing veins of Eddie's thick cock. Drool drips out of the corners of his mouth as he coughs and slurps, fighting against his gag reflex _and_ the annoying need for oxygen.

Eddie wheezes, sounding punched-out and wounded, hands immediately flying forth to grab at Richie’s hair, nails scratching at his scalp. He bucks and _growls_ , shaky fingers trailing Richie's sweaty temples until his thumbs can swipe across his jaw as he sucks on him, probably feeling the head of his own dick prodding at Richie's cheek on the pull back. 

Tasting Eddie after so long is like heaven, but he can’t savor the weight on his tongue or linger for more than a couple minutes because he’s only aiming to get him slick, not get him off. Not yet.

Richie pops free after a few more bobs, panting harshly, and crawls forward to push Eddie’s legs wide apart so he can settle nicely in the center. He leans over Eddie to guide his erection between his thighs, closing and clenching them until he fits snugly, right beneath his balls. Richie’s heated all throughout his body but especially at the back of his neck in this position, as he props his elbows on either side of Eddie’s head, foreheads resting on one another and heavy breaths shuddering in the inches separating their lips.

Eddie’s mouth opens in a silent _oh_ once he realizes what's happening, then he wraps his arms around Riche’s back to cup the blades of his shoulders, hanging on and burrowing closer.

There’s no slow start, this time. Richie ruts with purpose, with ardor. Out of rhythm and out of sync, lacking patience. He keeps his legs locked tight as Eddie fucks in the middle of them, rocking down each time Eddie jerks up, thrusting in short bursts. He receives his own pleasure from ( _the loud mewls he drags out of Eddie’s throat, the blissed expressions he helps paint with every sharp stroke_ ) the friction his cock gets while it’s trapped against both of their middles, sliding up and down and up and down against fevered skin and wiry hair, quivering muscles and cooling sweat and increasingly sticky fluids.

“Thought about doing this to _you,_ ” he rasps, turning his head until they’re pressed cheek-to-cheek, Richie’s teeth grazing Eddie’s ear, latching onto the lobe and sucking. 

“Yeah?”

“Your fuckin’— _legs_ , man. Maybe shoulda… shoulda done it the other way, switch places—”

“No- _oh!_ ” Eddie clings to him, moving his lower half until his ankles meet on Richie’s back, the heels of his feet digging in, adding pressure that makes his thrusts shorter and heavier. “Not now. S'good this way, Rich. _Your_ fucking legs— _huh,_ don’t stop, _don’t_ —”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to fuck me?” Every inch of his body is starting to tense and tingle. “Seems like I’m the one doing all the work.”

“You like it, dickwad."

“Nah. _Love_ it. Love—” It’s right there, sneaking closer and closer. Clawing at his insides, begging to be let out.

“Love?” Eddie prompts, a distant echo in the fog. "You love me, huh?"

“Yeah, I—love you,” Richie chokes, too far gone to feel those bashful butterflies flapping around in his stomach the way he sometimes does when they say such things to one another. “ _God_ , Eddie, baby. Love you _so_ fucking much, you have no _idea_ —”

“I do, Rich,” he implores, ten piercing points of prickling pleasure-pain raking down his back. “I do. And _you._ You know I—”

There’s a hiccup in his voice on a particularly hard thrust and it leaves him clinging to Richie like a koala, something he’ll never verbally admit to adoring. He’s going at a pattern he’s not even conscious of, completely lost in the throes of sex and romance and all the other millions of emotions Eddie forever inspires. 

“—know I love you, so, so much. Ah, _fuck, shit, Richie!"_

He’s in a tunnel, back against the wall, vision black around the sides but blaring white in the middle. And that’s when the train hits him at full force, tender words cloaking his brain while the orgasm itself zaps through, lighting him ablaze. He’s a livewire for a while, too out of sorts to count just how long, and then he’s _warm_. Boneless. Endlessly adrift. His heartbeat thrashes in his ears, dick continuing to twitch.

Richie is still moving, slow and semi-steady, only noticing when Eddie begins keening and writhing, his cum spurting out to land on the backs of Richie's knees and calves, probably dripping onto the coverlet as well.

Once he's cognizant of reality again he connects their mouths in a kiss that’s more heavy breathing than anything else, but Eddie cups his face and returns the gesture lazily, melting into the mountain of pillows underneath his head as the afterglow hits them both.

Richie is numb and hazy and he’s coated, front and back, in thick ropes of jizz, and when he rolls off Eddie to land on his side of the bed it’s with a happy little grunt he didn’t even mean to emit. 

They give each other space for a few slow moments, which Richie uses to mentally congratulate himself for not breaking down into tears. He lifts his glasses off his face, drowsily setting them on the nightstand with a clatter. He could fall asleep just like this—

But then Eddie’s yawning and climbing onto his feet, tugging at the fabric caught beneath Richie’s body as a hint for him to do the same. He follows suit after a minute of pouting and grumbling, standing shakily to help Eddie unmake the bed. Once all the pillows are on the floor and the blankets are turned down, Eddie tosses one of the abandoned towels to Richie and uses the other to wipe the smear of splooge off his torso, nose scrunching with slight disdain. Richie smiles like it’s the cutest thing in the world because, _goddamn_ , it really, really _is_. 

They get dressed after that—a set of pajamas for Eddie, red checkered pants with a bright blue cotton shirt; a yellow _Beastie Boys_ tee with threadbare sweats for Richie—and fall onto the unsullied sheets, unable to see as well as before thanks to Richie having closed the curtains beforehand. He doesn’t need eyesight to know when Eddie scoots toward him, however, because they’re touching soon enough. Eddie’s fingers lace gently with Richie’s, his head lowering to rest against Richie’s chest, curling into his side. Eddie uses his free hand to cover them both with the blanket he’d packed, the same one they shared in Derry, and Richie allows himself to be haphazardly tucked in, burying his face in Eddie’s wild hair.

The silence continues to stretch on as they settle in for the night, sated and secure, and although it would be odd in any other circumstance, this unusual quiet, it seems par for the course now. Comfortable. Cozy.

“So… _baby_ , huh?”

 _Embarrassing_.

“What?” he says. Scoffs, more like. Pretending he doesn’t understand. 

“You called me baby.”

“No I didn’t.”

Eddie chuckles, half amused and half annoyed.

“ _Yes_ you did.”

“Well, you can’t prove it, so it’s basically like I didn’t.”

“ _Richie_.”

“ _Eddie._ ”

“I don’t mind.” His hand tightens around Richie’s. “I mean, if you said that in front of anyone else I’d have to kick your ass, but when we’re alone… I, um. It’s… fine.”

“Oh.”

He’s not blushing. He’s smiling, in fact, looking like a loon in the shadows of their rented room. _You did something right_ , he tells himself, his brain still clinging to that earlier endorphin rush and refusing to let go. _Ten points for Tozier!_

“Yeah.”

“So, like, do you mean _just_ during sex, or…?”

“ _Or_ , Eddie confirms, a tad shy but still bold enough to _go_ for it. "If you want." Richie swears he can hear his own gulp when he swallows. “You know, sometimes I catch myself trying to call you sweetheart?”

Okay, maybe Richie _is_ blushing. He sniffs dryly, scratches at his scruff.

“I wouldn’t mind either, if you did. You can call me pretty much anything you’d want and it’d be good. One might say _fine,_ even.”

Eddie pinches him for that last mocking bit.

“You sure? ‘Cause sometimes I feel like you might explode if I freaking _look_ at you a certain way. And I’m pretty sure you hang up on me sometimes so you can freak out in the bathroom or whatever—which is gross and _dangerous_ , by the way. But yeah, there’s no way your cell reception is _that_ bad, Richie.”

“Okay, three things. Firstly, fuck you very much. Secondly, my cell reception _is_ bad, especially when I’m in the basement getting a handy from your mother.”

“Could you _not_ —”

“And thirdly, that’s an accusation you actually _can’t_ prove, so _ha_.”

“You saying that is proof enough, dipshit.”

“Is it? I could be using reverse psychology, Eds. The world may truly never know.”

“Uh huh. _Anyway_ ,” Eddie says loudly, choosing his battles in a way he never used to be able to as a kid, always chomping down on Richie's bait in some way or another. Maybe he senses Richie’s attempt at switching topics, in this instance. Countless rambling phone conversations have made him a pro at that. “I always stop myself because… _sweetheart_ is what I used to call Myra.”

“Ah.”

“It was a perfunctory thing,” Eddie explains quietly, snaking an arm around Richie’s middle like he might disappear otherwise. Richie presses a kiss to his damp hairline to sooth him. “I did it because she wanted me to, because that’s what normal couples do. So when I feel like calling _you_ that… I dunno. I guess I can’t decide if it’s just a habit or if it’s something I actually want to say.”

“You don’t have to worry about it, man. It’s not a big deal.”

“I _want_ to worry about it,” Eddie stresses. “I’m not calling _you_ baby and sweetheart’s kind of off the table, for now, but I’ll find something eventually. And it’ll be way better than _honey_ or _darling_ or all that other basic shit.”

“Alright, knock yourself out. But you _could_ just call me Trashmouth, you know.”

“I’m not calling you Trashmouth when we’re fucking!”

“What about Big Poppa?”

Eddie’s horrified shriek earns a rapid knock on the wall from Stanley, who just so happens to have the great misfortune of being their neighbor for the duration of this vacation. Richie howls and clings to the headboard when Eddie tries to physically kick him out of bed.

Well, Florida might not be so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> Heeeeeyyyyy!! I can't believe we're almost done. :') This fic has been my baby for MONTHS, so it's bittersweet. I am working on several other different things tho (or trying to, at least), so there's that.
> 
> The epilogue was originally going to be one chapter, but it got way too long so I split it up This one is still fairly long, on par with the others, and the next/last part will be as well, so splitting it was probably the best option. Although it feels like not much happened here... well, there was a reunion, some fluff, and a bit of smut, so! Next chapter is probably just more fluff and some domesticity, I think. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> If you liked this chapter or the fic in general, please feel free to let me know! The comments I've been getting lately are super amazing, as are the kudos, and I appreciate all of it! We're all in this reddie dogpile together.
> 
> I once again apologize for any and all mistakes. I've been editing on my phone lately, which is harder for me. I'm doing the rest of my writing/typing on a laptop tho because I hate trying to do that on anything else.
> 
> Anyway, I hope this part was able to make you guys happy. ♥ 
> 
> (note: i don't condone richie's fat jokes, but it's in the canon so i added one in. sorry. also i do not know anything about chicago or florida)
> 
> OH! And if any of you have any ideas for a petname that Eddie would call Richie (that isn't one he said he wouldn't call him), tell me please!! I'll probably try to include it in a future fic in this series if we can come up with one. Otherwise Eddie just won't bother lolol


	13. Epilogue (Part Two): A Beautiful Second Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ◕ヮ◕
> 
> [warnings for: more musical shenanigans]

Richie used to hate grocery shopping when he was a kid, before he hit the age where his parents no longer deemed it necessary to drag him along just so he wouldn’t burn the house down in their absence. They hadn’t trusted him at that age (eleven) either, truthfully, but by then he usually spent all his free time roaming the streets of Derry until nightfall rather than vegging out in front of the TV in search of new voices to mimic, so it wasn't an issue.

He remembers how _boring_ it was to follow his mom around the aisles, sticking close and biting his tongue whenever she chastised him for loitering or talking too loud. She let him pick out cereal and soda and nothing else, putting boxes and bags onto shelves at random whenever he’d try to throw something into the cart. He remembers feeling dejected, most of all, whenever he pushed her to the point of ignoring him entirely, choosing to rifle through her purse with a frown rather than answer him as he said _mom, hey, look, mom, what about this, m o m_ —

But he’d been more than happy to skip running errands with Went and Mags at the end of the day since it meant he got to spend more time with the people who actually gave a shit about him. He hadn’t thought much on the mundane activities of adulthood again until he’d been forced to do them himself, without aid, once he drove his ass all the way out of Maine. He’d despised it then, too. Until he didn’t.

Perhaps it was because he no longer had Eddie, Bill, or Stan to act as distractions or keep him company, back. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t even _remember_ them, or Bev and Ben and Mike. Perhaps it was because he’d been truly alone and could linger near displays and mumble under his breath and try to make the cashier laugh as much as his heart desired without anyone telling him to _be quiet_ or _hurry up._ It could have been any number of things changing, inside Richie or around him, that turned his hatred of grocery shopping into appreciation.

It’s therapeutic, Richie supposes, and a little mindless. He could go over the vast array of things he needed to buy while thinking about his latest schedule, while wondering what other opportunities might pop up in the near future, while combing through every detail of whatever movie or show he’d caught the night before, the blue hues of his massive television flashing across the lenses that covered his droopy eyes and simultaneously making his rocks glass look like it’d been carved from ice.

It’s still like that, but _better_. Because he’d been with _Eddie_ the night prior, which meant there was no unwitting loneliness dragging him down, and he’d enjoyed a bountiful breakfast with the Losers on the first floor of the B&B—minus Mike, though Beverly had been sure to smuggle some treats in her purse for him—before carpooling to the nearest supermarket, where he’d gotten recognized in the parking lot by a group of teenagers who were truly excited to meet him. They took photos together that Richie knew would be blasted all over the internet in no time, and he was sort of looking forward to seeing what a response to him resurfacing might be, given how off the radar he’s stayed since Derry. He looks good, not much at all like the depressed alcoholic of his pre-reunion days—which might lend credence to the startlingly popular rehab theory, but oh well. He’s not paying his new publicist the big bucks for _nothing_.

Richie’s got a list in hand, now, written hastily this morning after randomly selecting a cake recipe off Google, and even though all the Losers had yelled at him for picking something that takes _four_ _fucking hours_ to make in total, he’s still determined to get it done. Eddie’s also got a list, though it mostly consists of dairy and spices for his potatoes, and the two peruse the chilly rows of the market with different levels of attention.

Eddie, Richie has come to realize, _hates_ grocery stores as much as Young Richie used to. Eddie might hate shopping in general, it’s hard to guess, but Richie’s not going to pry. He chalks it up to a lack of patience and agency, knowing what he does about both Mrs. Ks, and simply follows Eddie’s frantic bustling with leisurely strides, whistling _She Bop_ very poorly all the way.

Richie tries to focus on nabbing all the ingredients he needs for what the website calls Chocolate Brown Sugar Butter Cake, but Eddie’s wearing his wiry little readers, looking like an angry nerd, sexy and distracting, so it’s difficult to function when all Richie wants to do is kiss Eddie’s soft lips and stare into his starry eyes and run his hands through his feathery hair; when all he wants to do is smooth his thumbs over Eddie’s knobby knuckles and turn his frown-lines into laugh-lines with dumb shitty jokes and memorize the curves of his scars because he’s _here_ and _alive_. That will never _not_ be mind-blowing.

He spots the top of Stan’s springy curls when he and Patty round a corner, a sight that helps remind Richie that he’s in public. He also hears a mix of laughter from Ben, Bev, and Audra a few aisles down, bonding while Bill and Mike are off somewhere searching for pans and utensils.

Richie inhales the distinct scent of too much AC, shrugging deeper into his bomber jacket and rolling the cart to a stop near the refrigerators where he proceeds to watch Eddie dart between various brands of buttermilk to compare nutritional facts with an absentminded frown. It’s so _mundane_ and _domestic_ and Richie wants to do shit like this with Eddie for the rest of his goddamn _life_. His body heats at the thought, the way it always used to whenever Eddie chose to stick to Richie’s side long after everyone else had already gone home. It made him feel special, worthy of time and affection. It's hard to remember that, some days, but Eddie eases his concerns with very little effort. 

Speaking of… Eddie, sensing he’s being watched, glances at Richie from over the top of his bifocals. One caterpillar brow crawls up his forehead in question.

He’s wearing a green polo with nary a button undone and dark denim jeans that are tighter than his usual fare, the ankles cuffed like his chinos from the day prior. He’s got on a teal windbreaker and the same black shoes he’d arrived in, and he’s clashing almost as bad as Richie is (in his pale blue flamingo patterned button-up with a _Twisted Sister_ tee lying wrinkled and too short underneath, barely meeting the waistband of his black jeans, and his clown-sized feet covered in shoes he spent way too much money on), but somehow it _works_. Really damn well. 

Richie tries to mask how much he’s enjoying this entire situation, so as not to seem weird, but his smile won’t falter.

“What?” Eddie demands, like he’s waiting for Richie to reveal a punchline or prank.

“Nothing! Nothing, Jesus, can’t a guy smile in public anymore?”

Eddie squints and, having finally decided on what brand of buttermilk Richie should use in his cake, sets a small bottle in the cart. Then he crowds into Richie’s space until they’re both shuffling over to a section of sour cream.

“What?” Eddie repeats, softer and less guarded, complete with a nudge to Richie’s ribs.

“Was thinkin’ this is nice,” he mumbles, peeking at Eddie from the corner of his eye as he grabs a tub of Daisy, making sure to check the date on the lid so he doesn’t get bitched at before adding it to the rest of their goods.

“I guess,” Eddie says, not at all enthusiastic. When Richie looks over he sees Eddie’s face screwed up in a way that’s dumb enough _not_ to be attractive but still absolutely unfairly is. He opens his mouth to play off his foolishness. Eddie isn’t done. “I was hoping we could divvy stuff up, though.” The ‘ _when I move in’_ is slightly more than implied. “Like, you do the shopping and I do the laundry, because that’s something I actually like doing and I’m also genuinely worried about you turning all my whites into pinks.”

"You look good in pink,” Richie jokes. His smile, which had begun to slip, widens at the knowledge that Eddie has been thinking about shit like _chores_ and which of them will do what. He wonders if Eddie will pin a schedule to the fridge with one of the many tacky tourist magnets Richie’s been collecting over the years, but then promptly forces himself to cool off when his brain threatens to make him lose it right there in the middle of a Florida supermarket. “Wait, Eddie, you _like_ doing laundry? That’s the worst chore, you little psycho! Second only to unloading the dishwasher.”

“Oh my god, how fucking lazy can you _be?_ It’s _so_ hard taking clean dishes out of a machine and putting them back where they belong, boo-hoo. And laundry is _not_ the worst. It’s really calming!”

“It’s just a bunch of waiting around, Eds. You shove a load in the washer, wait, take the clothes out and shove them in the dryer, wait, then take them out _again,_ and that’s when you have to—” he gags emphatically, “ _fold them._ ”

“Okay, well, you like torturing yourself by wandering aisles full of poorly stocked shelves, with shitty country music playing nonstop over the speakers, even when you have to shove past people who think they own the whole freaking lane and get pissy when you tell them to get out of the _way_ , so you’re one to talk! And what happens when a store doesn’t have self-checkout, Richie? You just let yourself get ripped off by an underpaid cashier, don’t you? And you probably don’t even ask for a receipt—oh Jesus, I’m gonna fucking shit myself when I see how you do your banking, huh? _Please_ tell me you have a system—”

“Eddie, you’re gonna think I’m joking when I say this, but I need you to know I’m getting really turned on right now—”

“Oh, fuck off!”

“I can’t help it! You can’t hide this kind of passion!” he hisses at Eddie’s retreating back, only checking out his ass once(okay, fine, _twice_ ) as he speed-walks away, cheeks as pink as the flamingos on Richie’s overshirt.

His longer legs help him catch up with Eddie fairly quickly and the two eventually stop to knock the last of the cold items off the list. They’re on their way to the self-checkout station when Eddie’s head nearly explodes thanks to a couple moving at a snail’s pace with two full carts in front of the scanner they need to use, like there's not a care in the world. Richie’s prepared to swerve around them with a nasty glare but then Eddie rams between the idle duo, muttering aggressively under his breath, the _asshole_ he grits through his teeth surely loud enough for them to hear. Richie swells with fond amusement.

“Look at you, Mister Big Shot New Yorker. Bullying these poor, hapless Floridians. You’re gonna get your ass handed to you in Chicago if you pull stunts like that, you know.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and accepts the items Richie hands him, scanning each one and bagging them carefully. He might not like the task but he’s sure as hell good at it. Efficient.

“If that’s true then how are _you_ standing here right now?”

“As a major celebrity—” Eddie snorts and Richie grins, “I have an image to maintain.”

“Oh, right. I forgot how fragile the _DudeBro_ visage could be.”

“ _Dude_ , you’re the one who likes to call me _bro_.” Eddie waves dismissively and starts handing some of the full bags over to Richie to put back in the cart. “That’s all gonna change soon anyway.”

“Have you told the others yet?” Eddie wonders, glancing up to make eye contact briefly.

“Nope. I was thinking I’d wait ‘til, like, an hour before the first show airs. That’d be fine, right?”

Eddie huffs a laugh and keeps scanning. Richie rests his elbows on the handle, watching with a gentle smile. It’s quiet for a while, aside from the steady stream of _blip blip blips_ and rustling plastic each time Eddie tosses something in, with meaningless chatter drifting over when someone hustles by. Taking the last bag from Eddie, fingertips brushing on the pass, Richie arranges it with the others and nudges him away, wallet in hand, to swipe one of his cards. Eddie’s got his own account, entirely free from those specific ties to Myra, and his well-earned money is nothing to sneeze at, so he grunts in mild protest but doesn’t do much else to stop Richie's generosity. He is, after all—as Eddie stated so eloquently the day prior— _loaded._

He completes the transaction by shoving a receipt in the pocket of his jeans, only making it one step away from the machine when Eddie grips his elbow and leans in.

“Earlier… I know for a _fact_ you weren’t getting a half-chub from me talking about laundry and banking and shit—”

“Hey, man, you been sneaking peeks? My eyes are up _here_.” He swirls a finger around his head, knuckling his glasses farther up his nose. “All four of ‘em.”

One corner of Eddie’s mouth quirks, but then he shakes his head.

“I just—is it important to you? To talk about stuff like that?”

“Uh…” Richie scratches at his jaw, shoulders hunching up to his ears after he puts his wallet away. He’s tempted to jam his hands into his bomber jacket, though he refrains, still trying to work past those instincts that tell him he needs a shield. “Maybe? I—I dunno. It’s just new to me. You’re used to having someone around to do shit with, like _laundry_ and _shopping_ and freaking _banking_. I mean, I don’t do my own taxes, I have an accountant, and usually if I want something I just have it sent to me, right? And if I have to go to do stuff outside of work, ninety-nine percent of the time I’m on my own, ‘cause that’s how I thought it always was. So I’m independent. Mostly. Which is great and fine, I’ve been living the dream, but obviously I’m not used to doing _this_ —” Richie motions between them wildly. “Yeah. So, maybe it’s boring to you or whatever, which I get, but to me… I like it. I like having you here, with me, doing boring shit because you make it _fun_. And I like not having to be by myself, too.”

“Richie,” Eddie says softly, making Richie cringe. The last thing he wants is _pity_. He gives a halfhearted smile and drags his arm out of Eddie’s grasp, turning toward the cart to push it forward. But Eddie stands in front of the wobbly metal contraption, counting on Richie _not_ running him over with it, which… he’s thinking about it, honestly. Anything to dig himself out of the pathetic grave he’d just dug. “This isn’t _boring_ , dummy. Yeah, I used to dread doing it with Myra—not just shopping, pretty much _anything_ , I’m sure you can guess why—but it’s different with you. _Everything_ is different with you, Rich. _Fuck._ I—obviously I like having you here, too. I mean, I used to do the dishes by myself because I _wanted_ to be alone for _one_ freaking thing, away from Myra and work and all my other stressors, but it’s not like that anymore. If you wanna do dishes together then we’ll do dishes together. Because I don’t _want_ to be alone if I can be with you instead, okay? You think I know what sharing my life with another person is like and okay, in a general sense I do, but Rich... I don’t know what it’s like to _enjoy_ it. I don’t know what it’s like to wake up and _not_ immediately want to get out of bed. Or, I guess I should say I _didn’t_ know, until I woke up next to you.”

Richie’s chest aches at that, in an entirely good way for once, and he’s sure his face is doing something weird without his permission, probably making him look grossly constipated, but it’s okay. Because Eddie is smiling shyly, the shiny pink skin of his scar catching the light, and Richie just wants to kiss his big dumb dimples—

He’s _allowed_ to, he realizes, so he _does_. He slants forward to press his lips to both of Eddie’s cheeks in quick pecks on either side, hands sliding from the dark shadows on his jaw to the bits of neck uncovered by the collar of his polo to the slippery shoulders of his windbreaker and the warmth seeping in from underneath. They dart their eyes around in a moment of ingrained uncertainty, but then they land on each other once more, where they stay for a long moment and bask, and nothing else matters.

Richie clears his throat, ruffles a hand through his hair. His breath hitches when Eddie comes around to squeeze in between him and the cart, jean-clad ass brushing his crotch in a way he’s sure _isn’t_ purposeful based on the way Eddie’s spine straightens, but is welcome nonetheless. Eddie mumbles something that might be an apology or an excuse, though all Richie can hear is the blood rushing in his own ears.

“Let’s, uh, let’s load up,” he says hoarsely, moving out from behind Eddie, letting his hand brush his lower back and hip as he goes. He rushes to the front, where Eddie had been previously, standing to hop onto the rounded bar jutting out from underneath. His weight nearly tips the damn thing over, but Eddie is thankfully quick to keep it steady. “Pip pip and tally ho, my good fellow! Onward to our trusty steed!” Richie crows, throwing a cheesy grin over his shoulder.

“You’re _way_ too big for this,” Eddie grumbles, forehead creasing deep in consternation.

He pushes forward despite the protest, the slow start gaining momentum almost immediately with Eddie’s strength and speed, and soon enough they’re rocketing through the store, Richie whooping as he teeters and Eddie cackling at his back, neither of them caring about the disapproving mutters and looks shot their way.

“Yo, Stanley!” Eddie shouts once they near the entrance, the doors sliding open before they crash. “We get first dibs on the kitchen!”

“I don’t know them,” they hear Stan falsely tell the cashier after glancing over from where he stands in line, chest rising and falling with a deep sigh. Patty covers her mouth to hide a laugh.

“Don’t harass the elderly, Eds!” Richie teasingly reprimands. He doubts Stan hears him, but the narrow-eyed glare he catches sight of before they’re fully outside might beg to differ.

It’s well into autumn, a little less than a month away from winter, and yet the only sign of the season is the cool breeze that carries away yellow leaves every few minutes, tickling the backs of their necks with a ghostly chill in the otherwise humid air.

Richie feels like a kid as they slow to a stop near the Tahoe, the soles of his sneakers clapping against the concrete when he jumps down with more force than necessary. He begins helping Eddie pile their haul into the trunk, sneaking peeks at him in what little of his peripheral isn’t blocked by his glasses, admiring the strong line of his jaw and the long slope of his nose and the distinctly masculine curves of his body, coming to an interesting conclusion that maybe he just feels _young_. That maybe this is what he always imagined he would feel like when he was a teenager and swore he’d never be as boring or apathetic as his parents, as all the adults in Derry—which, for so long, had felt like the _world._ He’d always prided himself on being a kid at heart (once he passed twenty-five and became a full-fledged Grown Up in the eyes of society), sometimes using that as an excuse to get away with saying or doing shit a “man his age” should never say or do, but it's only now—having found the hidden depths of himself in the conclusion of a lifelong saga of transcendental horror—that he really knows what that _means_.

Richie isn't a kid, he's a forty year old man, and while he yearns for his youth like any normal adult in this current bracket he is profoundly thankful to be here, as is; where he can lock his pinky with Eddie’s and say _I love you_ and hear it back the way he never thought he would.

He’s being overly sappy, but it seems so apt given the date, the reason they’d all flocked to Florida to be together again. Richie is thankful for a lot of things (the Losers, his career, a benevolent turtle god, defeating a somewhat literal demon _and_ a hateful bully from his youth—in no particular order). But what he’s found with Eddie and _made_ with Eddie… that’s at the top of the ticket, bar none. He doesn’t have to wonder what Young Richie would think because he _is_ Young Richie, just as much as he is Old Richie, and he knows that _this_ is the life he was meant to be living.

***** * *** **

Everyone agrees to give Richie the kitchen first, allowing him to get his baking mishap out of the way after everyone else stores their items for later use within Mike’s sparse kitchen. Beverly doesn’t heed these directions, however, and decides to join Richie in the confined space to throw her cheese dip together so it can set overnight.

Richie's got bowls and spatulas and measuring cups, most of them brand spankin’ new, weaved in and around twenty-something ingredients, most of which he doesn’t even _need_ yet. There isn't much room on the countertops, let alone the area in which he has to move around, and he purposefully hip-checks Beverly into a cabinet three times to exaggerate his displeasure of having her encroach on territory that was supposed to belong solely to him.

“Sorry,” he says chipperly, grinning like an asshole when her knuckles turn white around the handle of a spoon. “But this wouldn’t keep happening if you’d just wait your turn, like we all agreed.”

“Oh _shut up_ , Richie,” she snaps, punching him in the bicep when he veers too close again. He winces and curses at her because of the instant dead-arm he receives. “I’ll only be in here for ten minutes. You can handle my _girl_ _germs_ for that long.”

“I _guess_ ,” he says sulkily, switching to a wide grin when she peers over at him with a cocked hip and playful glare. “Love ya, Molly.”

“Sure, Trashmouth. Now put the music on.”

Richie acquiesces with a bobbing nod, spinning on his heel to tap _play_ on his iPad and then swiping over to the screen of the recipe he’ll be following. He’d started with Def Leppard and had gotten through nearly an entire song before pausing it when Bev sauntered in. He skips the rest of the track to land randomly on another, eyes rolling up to the ceiling exasperatedly when ‘ _Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on earth!’_ rings loudly through the speakers, eliciting a combination of squealing and clapping from Bev in her little corner.

“Turn it up!” she demands.

Richie doesn’t dare defy her.

He tries focusing on the instructions over the music, which is amplified by Beverly’s own busy work and happy humming ( _‘and we’re spinning with the stars above, you lift me up in a wave of love’_ ), just barely managing to crack all four eggs without any pieces of shell falling in. The next step is boiling water for the cocoa powder and syrup. He pushes Bev away from the stove for real this time, turning on the burner and preheating the oven to the exact temperature stated.

Richie is in the middle of mixing flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt while _also_ trying to drop sour cream, buttermilk, and vanilla into a separate bowl, something a terrible multitasker like himself should never do, when he thinks: _wait, am I supposed to beat this by hand or with a mixer? Does Mike even_ have _a mixer? What the fuck do I_ —

He startles suddenly, so intent on the task at hand that he hadn’t anticipated Beverly grabbing his sleeve and tugging, forcing him to look down.

“ _When I feel alone_ ,” she croons along with Brenda Carlisle, that old familiar smirk starting to show around a corners of her mouth, “ _I reach for you and you bring me home. When I’m lost at sea, I hear your voice and it carries me! In this world we’re just beginning_ —sing it!— _to understand the miracle of living. Baby, I was afraid before_ —Richie!”

Oh, for fuck's sake.

“ _But I’m not afraid anymore-or!”_

That’s when the floodgates open. Together, at the top of their lungs, they sing:

“ _Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on earth! They say in heaven love comes first! We’ll make heaven a place on earth! Ooh, heaven is a place on earth!”_

Richie and Beverly are aware of the other Losers shuffling into the kitchen, drawn by their wannabe dulcet tones. They aren’t too bad, actually, once they start trying, which only happens at the end when they have an audience filled with raised brows and hidden smiles. Ben claps for them both, although Richie can see where his eyes linger most and it's sure as hell not on him. It gets worse when Bev winks at the poor sucker, turning him into freaking Bashful from Snow White. It’s too sweet to mock.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing something _besides_ killing our eardrums?” Audra drawls just as the opening beat for an NWA song comes on.

“Bill, if I throw hands with your wife just know it’s with the utmost respect—”

“Like I couldn’t kick your ass, Discount Dwight Schrute.”

“ _Ooh,_ Malibu Barbie’s got jokes! You should add _comedian_ to your list of pretend jobs, right under your starring role as _Bargain Bin Bev_ —”

“Alright, let’s—let’s tone it down,” Bill says through obvious laughter and a hint of scorn. Right. Maybe he _shouldn't_ make light of Bill's not _quite_ rock-solid marriage. They're getting there, but still. “If you start down that road we won’t ever stop, and if you hurt Richie’s feelings he won’t ever let you forget it."

“Okay, screw you, fuckin’ _Ranger John_ —”

“Richie,” Stan interrupts, knowing full well how far Richie used to be willing to go to “win” an argument.

“Patty, the fairest maiden in all the land, do you _see_ what I have to put up with?”

“Don’t try to corrupt my wife, Richard,” Stan says sternly, eyes shining with mirth. He tuts and thrusts his hands forward to present a thing that’s khaki colored and folded neatly.

“Uh…”

“It’s an apron.”

“What, you bring it with you all the way from Georgia? I don’t need a fucking _apron_ , Stanley.”

“You’ll think that until Eddie chews you out for getting more batter on your clothes than in the pan.”

“Hey, don’t bring me into this.”

“You _know_ I’m right!”

Richie goes back to the stove to tend to the boiling water, stirring powdered cocoa into it. Stan rounds on Eddie and the sharp edges of their friendly argument fade into the music. Richie finds himself unable to stop smiling as he checks the huddle of his friends from over his shoulder. There’s gratification in this moment, having made it this far, to a point of no return, of not _wanting_ any take-backs or exchanges. And there’s something normal in the _ab_ normality of it, standing in Mike’s home in fucking _Florida_ , cooking like a housewife while his _man_ entertains (ie: _antagonizes_ via declarations of aprons being _dumb_ ) the masses. It’s embarrassing, how close Richie is to swooning, but no one has to know. 

“Can I trust everyone not to make a mess of my kitchen before I do?” Mike asks above the noise, standing tall and relaxed at the back of the group like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. “Maybe? Please?”

“You’ve got Stan and Eddie in the house, Mikey,” Bill reminds, ignoring the twin glares sent his way. “It’ll be fine.”

“And we’ll _all_ be sure to clean up after ourselves,” Ben promises in a tone reminiscent of an elementary school teacher.

The banter continues without much contribution from Richie, who chooses to put an unprecedented amount of effort into making sure this Thanksgiving cake will be as delicious as his uncoordinated limbs and squirrel-frantic mind will allow. His brain is automatically tuned into Eddie’s voice, so he very clearly hears him asking Bill to tell the story about Stan pissing the bed during his ninth birthday party. Richie cracks up to the point of tears when Patty coos over that tidbit, like it’s adorable instead of a fact worthy of endless ribbing. Richie can't resist dusting off the old _Stanley Urine_ pun.

The Losers do eventually filter out, perhaps due to _Rock Lobster_ popping up in the shuffle. Eddie and Beverly, who taps _next_ on the screen as she slips by, are the only ones to remain. _Ah, hell,_ Richie thinks when a beloved poppy dance beat replaces the weird funk of the B-52’s, reminding him not only of all the times he’d listened to it at whatever address he called home in whatever strange stage of life he’d been in, but also of that _one_ solitary cassette he’d lost long ago but can’t dismiss.

He remembers that tape far better than any of the countless others he’d created, or the ones that had been thrown together by Beverly or Mike. He wishes he still had it so he could hand it over to Eddie and finally fulfill Teenage Richie’s hopeless hope by tying a knot off on that particular loose end.

 _‘I, I got to be your friend now, baby. And I would like to move in just a little bit closer. All I know is that, to me, you look like you’re lots of fun, open up your lovin’ arms, watch out, here I come. You spin me right round, baby, right round. Like a record, baby, right round, round, round_ —”

“I want your love,” he murmurs, a ghost of a smile taking form. Bev hums and Eddie creeps closer, tilting his head to watch Richie go to town with a spatula.

“God, I remember this,” Eddie says through an easy grin. “It’s been a while.”

“You really liked this one, huh?”

“Hm, yeah, I guess I did. Oh, fuck— _Whip It!_ You remember _that_ one? Ah, geez. And _Sonic Reducer?_ I went crazy whenever that came on. _”_

“Oh, yeah. Chipmunk on crack, I told you!” Richie shakes his head fondly, shaking his arm out to continue beating the batter. “You were so weird, dude. You had a secret hard-on for love songs or anything you could dance to, but I’d sneak in some real punk shit and you ended up liking those tracks best. Circle Jerks was your obsession for, like, a year.”

“ _Question authority. I’ll pay the price, the future belongs to me._ Holy shit, that just came back! I remember I lost the tape it was on. I looked for it everywhere, even the fucking _garbage_ , but now I’m thinking my mom probably heard what was on there and decided to confiscate it or something.”

“Yikes. Well, I guess it’s a good thing I never gave you my magnum opus, ‘specially since I wrote _For Eddie’s Mom_ right on the cover. She would’ve popped that one in for sure. Would’ve _flipped_ her Godzilla-sized _lid,_ too.”

“No, no, come on. That’s not a real thing.”

Richie pauses when the fridge door slams shut. He takes a couple steps to the right so Beverly can put her dishes in the sink, signaling to them that she’s done for the day with a salute on her way out. The Cult has since replaced Dead or Alive, turning Richie a little solemn as he remembers this song, specifically, being the second to last one he’d recorded on that well-loved boombox, for no other reason than the way it made him feel.

Eddie hops up onto the counter, settling down on a surprisingly clean spot in the midst of Richie’s mess. He looks over at the iPad’s screen when Richie points to it.

 _‘And those heads that turn. Make my back, make my back burn, yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. The fire in your eyes keeps me alive. And the fire in your eyes keeps me alive. I’m sure in her you’ll find a sanctuary. I’m sure in her you’ll find a sanctuary. And the world, the world turns around. And the world, and the world, the world drags me down_ —’

“This was on there,” he reveals, recalling how he’d hear this song and pretend for those four and a half minutes that he was exactly like Bill and Ben, able and willing to fawn over Beverly. Or any girl, for that matter. Never mind that if _anyone_ could've be compared to Bev it would've been _Eddie_ —both of them tough and brave and caring underneath all the qualities that made them uniquely themselves, flaws and annoyances included. Richie would sometimes wonder, when songs like these openly waxed poetic about love and desire, why _he_ had to be the one to turn out so different. (He never once wondered, however, why it was _Eddie_ his heart had fallen for in the first place, because the possibility of loving anyone else just didn’t make sense to Richie. Never had, never will.) “Right above _Love Song_ by The fucking _Cure._ So, uh, yeah. It wasa real thing. Ongoing for like four years. Remember when Mike brought up your last night in Derry? I was gonna give you that sucker then, when we went by the Kissing Bridge, but I just—” His chuckle is a tad uncomfortable. “I came to my senses, I guess.”

“Wait.” Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. His legs, which had been swaying in front of the cabinets, freeze in place. Richie busies himself with greasing a trio of round cake pans so he doesn’t have to face Eddie head on. “ _Wait._ You made me a _mixtape?_ A legitimate one?”

“Implying the other handful I gave you were somehow fake?”

“Richie, you gave _all_ of us tapes ‘cause you thought your taste in music was superior or whatever. I’m talkin’, like, _High Fidelity_ style here. You made me one of those?”

“I—yeah, but it was—”

”With _Love Song?_ And _She Sells Sanctuary?_ What else?”

“Eddie, it was twenty-plus years ago. I can’t remember.”

“Bullshit!” Eddie’s socked heel slaps against the cabinet in excitement. Richie, knowing this is not about to be dropped, slumps and sighs, using his bare forearm to wipe some perspiration from his forehead. “You literally _just_ named two songs!”

“Okay, fine! Um…” He squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head back, trying to recall which hits he’d deemed worthy enough for his very secret, very embarrassing semi-hobby. “ _Fuck_ , this is stupid. _Africa_ was definitely on there, because of course it was. And something from Blondie, I think.”

“ _Heart of Glass?”_

Richie grips the edge of the counter and shakes his head.

“It better not be the one about fucking _stalking_ , Richie—”

“It was _Call Me_ ,” he blurts, cringing internally _and_ externally. “And there was a really sappy one from Modern English, that’s all I can tell you.” Eddie’s expression wobbles dangerously when Richie peeks over at him, the two of them eye-to-eye at this level, so he adds: “If you laugh at me I swear I’m gonna dump this entire bowl over your head, bitch!”

“Don’t you _fucking_ dare!” Eddie yells, shoving at Richie’s hip with the flat of his foot. Richie grabs the bowl and rolls up onto his toes, reaching out to hold his arms over Eddie’s head, red cheeks stretching into a strained grin when Eddie shoots him a challenging glare. He allows Eddie to take it from his hands and set it back down while he jabs a finger at the volume buttons on his iPad. “You gotta let me laugh a little bit, Rich. It’s—”

“Cheesy, I know. Ha-ha, trash the Trashmouth for having yucky _feelings_.”

“Hell yeah I’m gonna clown you for this shit, Richie! That’s _so_ cheesy.”

“ _Clown_ me? Way too soon, man. Get out.”

“But it’s cute, too!” Eddie amends, wrapping his arms and legs around Richie’s torso when he tries to shove him to the floor, clinging so they stick together. “Sweet, I mean. You were really gonna give it to me at the Kissing Bridge? By our initials? I wish you would’ve.”

“No,” Richie says into Eddie’s shoulder, keeping his hands to himself and his face hidden. “No, you really don’t, Eddie.”

He must recognize something in Richie’s tone, with the way he stills, fingers twisting around the hem of his shirt.

“What do you mean?”

“Man, you were so fuckin’ repressed, you said that yourself. If I’d have given it to you back then you would’ve went apeshit once you figured out what it meant. But that wasn’t _why_ I kept it to myself. I really did want you to know and I figured before you left woulda been perfect, since I wasn’t gonna see you again anyway, at least not for a while, and if you had something to say… I could handle hearing it over the phone.”

“Maybe,” Eddie concedes reluctantly. “Probably, at first, but I would’ve had time to—to understand everything. It’s not like I hadn’t been thinking of you that way, _this_ way, by then. It was just… hard.”

“Thinking is one thing. Like, you still ignored it. And I kept all that hidden. Acting on what we felt, that’s a whole different story, Eds. You can’t honestly think back on the way things were and tell me anything good would've come from it. You had your little dorm room fantasy, sure, but you knew that’s all it’d ever be.”

“I know.” The weight of his sigh is a heavy one. Richie hooks his chin over Eddie’s shoulder as a hand cups his nape. “I know, but I still would’ve _felt_ it, Rich. You gotta… you gotta believe that.”

“I do,” Richie says. There’s nothing light in his tone, no flippant shrug of his shoulders. “Hey, I do. I believe you.”

“And we forgot anyway,” Eddie says against Richie’s forehead. “So whatever the outcome _could_ have been, it wasn’t gonna matter.”

“Nope. Pennywise made sure of that, didn’t he?”

Richie feels rather than sees Eddie grimace, though he hums thoughtfully shortly after.

“You should remake it for me, now that we’re not so scared. Then you can give it to me like you were supposed to.”

“Is that what you want? An actual old-timey mixtape?”

“I’ll accept a CD, if that’s easier.”

“Want me to play it outside your window, too? _Really_ pay homage to our roots? Big time 80s blast-from-the-past from yours truly.”

“I’ll call the police if you try that.” Laughing softly, Richie leans back just enough to meet Eddie’s eye, finally relaxing within the protective loop of his embrace. “And hey, just so know, when I make fun of you it’ll be entirely out of love. I promise.”

“Oh, well in _that_ case."

“You should get back to your cake,” Eddie says, gazing at Richie with almost _too_ much fondness. He pushes him back so he can slide off the counter and land on his feet, ducking his head with a coy smile while grabbing the iPad purposefully. “But first…”

Richie pulls his glasses off to clean the lenses on his tee as the opening to one of his all-time favorites begins to play, barely audible but effortlessly recognizable. The tempo is a little too quick for typical slow dancing, but Eddie seems to want to try judging by the way he drapes his arms to rest around the back of Richie’s neck, raising his brows and pursing his lips until Richie takes the hint, gets his vision back in order, and pulls Eddie—who shivers when Richie slips a thumb up under his shirt to glide across a hipbone—in closer by the waist.

They stand there for a moment, staring at each other awkwardly and not moving at all, devolving into muffled giggles the longer time stretches on. But then they start swaying, moving their hips and shoulders but not their feet, sneaking peeks at each other like they’re at a lame school gathering.

Richie remembers going to one or two of those, moving stiffly with any girls (which there were very few of) who were brave enough to ask. He’d alternate between talking over the music due to nerves and staring out across the room—honing in on Eddie’s small frame no matter where he stood, be it at the back of the gymnasium with Stan or somewhere in the middle with whichever lucky gal had managed to snag him for a round. Richie remembers feeling sick with yearning on those scarce occurrences, gut churning the same way it had when he chugged a flask he’d stolen from his mother’s purse and puked all over his and Mike’s shoes on Derry High’s front steps.

His stomach hurts a little right now. Aches just like the back of his throat. It helps that Eddie’s got his face scrunched in a way that suggests he’s feeling some discomfort too, though only in the best of ways, similar to falling off your bike after popping a wheelie for the very first time. Any lingering pain within the temporary impact is outweighed by the elation of the achievement.

‘ _However far away, I will always love you. However long I stay, I will always love you. Whatever words I say, I will always love you. I will always love you.’_

The lyrics strike him deeper than ever, rendering him uncharacteristically speechless. Stooping down, Richie blankets Eddie’s mouth with his own, carrying the hefty contentment of such a welcomed deed and its enthusiastic reception in the open spaces of his rib cage, swirling around his galloping heart.

***** * *** **

Nightmares seem to come at the most inopportune of times. Richie had admittedly been without one for a while—at least six days, a new record—though now it seems as if his luck has run dry.

It’s not the worst he’s ever had, where everything is tilted and bloody and the only emotions he can feel are dread and devotion, the latter of which is merely a cruelty in the flickering shadow of the Grim Reaper's persistent presence. But it is certainly not the easiest, either; not a scene he can jolt from after a particularly vicious jumpscare or a ghost story he can forget when morning light begins to filter in. Richie’s nightmares are always vivid, rarely irrelevant, and never something he can shake off with a few deep breaths, and this one is in no way following a different formula. It's a miracle that he stirs when he does, mid-way through the worst vestiges of his past, distorted and painted anew.

As he sits himself up in bed, sweating through his shirt with how hard his pulse is pounding, he takes a moment to assess his surroundings, slowly realizing that everything he’d seen behind his eyelids can’t hurt him where he’s at now—safely tucked away inside a cozy B&B that’s located over a thousand miles away from Maine. Eddie is also here, a solid lump beside him, unharmed and undisturbed by the terror that’s dug its hooks deep into Richie’s brain.

He presses a hand to Eddie’s back just to feel the deep rise and fall of it, reassuring himself without waking him the way he usually would with a phone call. It works well to calm his panic, but the stiff restlessness that usually follows such nightly interruptions refuses to be quelled as quickly, so he grabs his glasses and slides from bed to step over to the glass doors leading out to the balcony. He cracks one door open with as little noise as possible and steps out into the moonlight.

It’s already becoming difficult to remember the details of what haunted him this time, but he swears he catches a whiff of greywater as he seats himself on a porch swing, the stars in the sky looking like stark white and over-bright pinpricks that threaten to suck him in. Richie twists his head around at least three times in as many minutes to obsessively check that Eddie is where he left him, then fights himself the whole time to just _sit_ there rather than jump back in bed to shake Eddie awake.

He’s not sure which parts are supernatural fragments left over from the Deadlights and which parts are just pure and simple PTSD—some of it might even be _normal_ , the kinds of nightmares he’d had when an overactive imagination was the only thing he needed to worry about—but it’s detrimental to to the quality of his life, either way, and he’s beyond tired of it.

Still, the consequences of living through such terrible events are worth revisiting night after night if it means he gets to keep all that he’s gained from those experiences, and that’s what he tells himself while he closes his eyes and rocks back and forth like he’s trying to sooth something agitated some place far within.

He wants a cigarette or a hard drink, though he goes for neither. Mostly he wants the other Losers. Maybe a little peace of mind.

Richie is in the middle of quietly and speedily running through his nicely sized list of voices, some admittedly better than others, to sooth his upset when Eddie finds him. He’s adorably rumpled with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak, despite the air not being overly chilly. The clean socks he’d put on before bed so he wouldn’t have to touch the floor with his bare feet are twisted and loose from hours of tossing and turning.

“Talking to yourself ‘cause everyone else is asleep?”

There’s weariness beneath the surface of the taunt, letting Richie know he’ll keep it light if that’s what it takes to make him feel better—because he sees, especially with how well Eddie knows him, that something isn’t quite right—or that he’ll dive into the heaviness with him if that’s what he needs instead.

“Just practicing,” he says tiredly, rubbing his knuckle beneath a lens to get some crust out of his eye. “Can’t afford to get rusty.”

“Right. Well, I’ll spectate if you give me five dollars.”

“Just five?” He perks up. “Baby, you don’t need Lincoln’s help to get _this_ footlong. _”_

Eddie should know better than to look down when Richie points to his crotch, but he does it anyway with a snort that sounds painful, then shuffles closer to plop down beside Richie on the swing, invading his space like he’s had a monopoly on it since 1984. (Newsflash: he _has_.)

“Don’t be gross right now.”

“Sorry.”

Eddie rests against the slats of the backing, flinging one arm out like a wing he’s offering to take Richie under. He watches him dubiously for a tick, just so he doesn’t seem desperately eager when he crowds into Eddie’s side for a cuddle.

“You should’ve woken me up,” Eddie whispers. Not judging or scolding, but simply stating. Like he wants Richie to know it's always an option.

“Thought about it, but you get all pissy when I interrupt your beauty sleep. And it wasn’t even that bad. I just needed a minute.”

“I have ‘em, too," Eddie divulges. Richie knows this, though they don't really talk about it. "Sometimes they’re about the clown, sometimes they’re about you and Bill dying in that room with—with the head, but… but sometimes it’s about what happened to me. Like, I see the Turtle again and I’m never sure if I’m back under the Well House or if that thing, Maturin or whatever, is actually in my head, trying to tell me something. And then I think—did I ever make it out at all?”

“Eddie,” Richie croaks, practically burrowing himself into the blanket that hardly fits around them both. “All those times I called you, crying like a baby with a shitty diaper… you could’ve told about it, man. I mean, I knew you were still struggling, but something like _that?_ Seems like it deserves a fucking mention.”

“I can get through it on my own. I have to.” Richie almost rolls his eyes at Eddie’s stubborn commitment to complete autonomy, even if it _is_ admirable. “When I wake up and I don’t know what’s real, I’ll listen to the news or go for a run or look through all the weird shit you guys say in the chat. And I have that voicemail you left when you tried making those pot brownies, remember? After you hurt your back moving that stupid _Street Fighter_ arcade cabinet?”

“Hey, buying that thing is my way of kicking a bunch of bad memories in the ass, alright? It's _my_ form of therapy. The brownies were a bonus.”

“Whatever. I just—I listen to that message a lot, you know? Even the part with your fucking _Jabba_ voice. Even the part where you try to act like you’re not crying when you tell me you love me and you end up sounding like freaking _Elmo_ on total accident. Especially that part, maybe.”

Okay, well, how is Richie _not_ supposed to melt? He feels silly when he gets all giddy and flustered over conversations like this, but there’s no helping him. There never was.

He doesn’t have a witty retort for such sweet professions, so he puts his mouth to better use by smothering it against Eddie’s sleepy face. His temple, first, and then his cheek, his jaw, the side of a nostril because that’s all Richie can reach from their current angle. He pecks the side of Eddie’s mouth after nosing at the stubble that’s resurfacing, using one of his hands to gently turn Eddie’s head toward him to plant one tender smooch against thin lips that are a smidgen chapped from sleep.

Eddie leans into Richie, folding him more thoroughly into the comfort of the blanket and his arms, and all Richie can do is cradle his face and sigh into the kiss, his hazy mind cutting through the ghostly vines that have begun to loosen their hold.

“Morning breath,” Eddie complains after a few prolonged moments, wrinkling his nose as he pulls back.

He swipes a finger beneath Richie’s glasses, over the puffy bags he's undoubtedly sporting under his eyes, and frowns in a way that resembles a pout. The moonlight masks whatever haggardness he’ll surely have during the day, after a night like this, and his appearance would be ruggedly handsome if those sharp edges he’d come to associate with Adult Eddie Kaspbrak didn’t seem so soft and smooth out here, romantic in the authenticity of this setting and stance.

“Hey, I love you,” Richie says, the words still slightly foreign on his tongue. It feels good to say, though. Makes him match Eddie’s slow-spreading smile with one of his own. Makes him feel satisfied in a way that so uniquely its own.

“And _I_ love _you_. Idiot.”

God, Richie will never get tired of that. _Never, ever, ever._

Maybe it’s time to admit something he doesn’t often think about, outside nights like these.

“Okay, but remember how much you mean that once I tell you this super weird thing you’re definitely not gonna like.”

“Ah, Jesus, Richie. It’s too early for this shit.”

“Look, it’s just—the jacket I had in Derry? The leather one, the—the one that made me look a little less like a homeless Sasquatch?” Eddie chuckles, despite himself, then schools his expression back into something serious almost immediately. Richie resists the urge to rub all those deep lines away. “I kept it, you know? When you came back and you had it with you… I told myself I’d burn it. I mean, it’s super fucking nasty, right? It stinks pretty bad—”

“You haven’t fucking _washed it?”_ Eddie whisper-shouts, trying his best to be a courteous neighbor even as his tiny body fills with rage and disgust. “Are you fucking kidding me? You want me to step foot in your house when you have _that_ thing hanging around?”

“Dude, chill. You carried it all the way back to the Town House, remember? When it was at the _height_ of its germy potential. And it’s not like I carry it around with me, alright? I, um… It’s in a box, actually. At the very, very back of my closet. Where I used to be.” He screws his face up in distaste, not quite liking the flat insecurity of the joke. Mostly because of his current state of being but also because he simply isn’t used to talking about himself in this context with others. “That could use some work,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Anyway, uh. I have it tucked away, right? And usually when I call you everything’s pretty cool and I can go back to sleep and not feel like total shit the next time I wake up, but sometimes it’s like… even when you’re talking to me, it doesn’t always feel _real._ Because it seems too fuckin’ good to be true. So I gotta get the jacket and touch it, or hold it, and I can see the… see the blood, and it helps. Jesus Cheist, that sounds like some gross morbid bullshit, but it’s true. I left it and then I got it back ‘cause I got _you_ back, and I was gonna get rid of it...” He hugs Eddie close and takes a shuddering breath. “Dunno if you noticed, man, but I kind of have a hard time letting go of stuff when it comes to you.”

“Okay, you’re right about it being weird and gross and morbid, but _fuck_ , dude. Who the fuck would I be to judge you for that, huh? How long was I using an inhaler when I thought I needed it? And you know what, I _did_ need it, even though I don’t even fucking _have_ asthma. But I believed in it, y’know? Maybe… maybe the jacket’s like that for you. Maybe you believe you need it to make this real, but Richie— _Rich_ —” Eddie cups Richie’s scratchy jaw in his hands, thumbs brushing the down-turned corners of his mouth. “You _don’t_ need it. This _is_ real, you and me. Fucking— _us._ I burned my inhaler in Derry, remember? I’ve had to talk myself out of going out for another refill more than once, but I did it and I keep doing it, I keep living, and you’re gonna get there too, Rich. You’re gonna stop believing what that fucking clown showed you and you're gonna start believing what the Turtle gave us, and one day you’re gonna wake up and just _know_ , without a shadow of a doubt, that no matter what happened down there... I’m still _here_. With you. Like I’m supposed to be. And all that other shit won’t matter anymore. And—and you’re gonna burn your jacket like I burned my inhaler, and you’re gonna look at _me_ when you need to remember because that’s all you’ll need. I promise. Okay?”

Richie, surprisingly, doesn’t think he has the words to tell Eddie what all that means to him; to tell him that strength and bravery and stubbornness, all of it, has been such a major factor in how Richie’s been choosing to live his life Post-Derry, with the hopes that some of it will rub off on him from several states away. And it’s crazy because Eddie is just as flawed as Richie is, just as hurt and scared and fucked up, but he pushes through anyway. Keeps going because that’s all he’s ever done. And when he makes mistakes, freezes when it really counts, he always goes that extra mile to make up for it in the end. Richie does, too. And _that_ (along with Richie’s uncensored, undying love) is why he believes his nightmares, along with his compulsion to make sure Eddie is still alive and kicking because _fuck_ trauma, won’t be his New Normal forever. He’ll get through it just like he’s gotten through everything else on his journey to this very moment. And, dare he say, it might even be _worth it_.

No, it definitely _will_ be worth it. Already is.

“When you…” Richie begins, pausing to clear his throat as Eddie curls his fingers into his broad shoulders. Licking his lips, Richie grabs the back of Eddie’s head to toy with the messy hair at his nape, and spreads his free palm of Eddie’s rabbit-quick heartbeat. “Not when you visit, but when you move in… we’ll burn it together, alright? We can chant, too. Make it real authentic. My neighbors might call the cops but that’s just an integral part of the Chicago experience. If we fuck loud enough they’ll totally leave us alone.”

“No chanting and no cops.”

“And no campfire coitus?”

“Don’t say coitus.”

“‘Fine. No bonfire boinking?”

“I didn’t say _that_ ,” Eddie grumbles, smooshing Richie’s reddening cheeks beneath his soft hands.

“Yeah? I’ve got a tent,” Richie murmurs suggestively, intentionally lowering his voice so he can feel Eddie shiver. The fact that he can make him react that way isn't just a boost to his ego, but also to his fucking _soul._

“No you don’t.”

“I _do_. It’s already pitched.”

“ _Oh my god_.” Richie laughs, quiet and fond. Eddie presses a rough kiss to his chin, carelessly rewarding bad behavior. “I’ll _pitch_ you off this fucking balcony, dicknose.”

“Okay, alright, let’s be serious. I’ll _buy_ a tent so we camp in the yard. How’s that?”

“...Okay,” Eddie concedes after a couple seconds of short deliberation. “But I’m not fucking you in it.” Richie shuts his eyes, inhaling harshly through his nose. He turns his head an inch to kiss the inside of Eddie’s wrist. “Your backyard has grass and I’m _allergic_ , Richie.”

 _You're not_ , he could say. But he has a better idea.

“Then I’ll buy a hammock.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, shining faintly like mini moons in the enveloping darkness.

“ _Yeah_ ,” he says, quiet but fierce. Richie swallows hard. “Do that.”

“I will,” he promises. “I’ll get it before you visit. And I know you’re gonna say December’s too cold to be hanging around outside, so I’ll keep it in my perfectly insulated basement ‘til spring, just for you.”

“Okay,” Eddie whispers, sounding awed. It freaks Richie out because _he’s_ responsible for that tone, for the look of pure devotion shading his features—which, come to think of it, looks a lot like the sideways glances Eddie would sometimes send him back when they were teens, only he was too stupid and scared to recognize it before. Richie's belly quivers and swarms when Eddie shoves into him for a proper hug, swaddling their bodies in his warm blanket, the spicy scent that clings to the fabric making Richie’s brain go fuzzy.

“It’s not all about sex, I want you to know that. Like, it’s me and I’ve been hot for you forever, but it’s more than that and it’s _always_ been more than that.”

“I know,” Eddie says against Richie’s throat, head tucked beneath his chin. “You wouldn’t be Trashmouth if you didn’t talk about dicks and boobs twenty-four-seven.”

“I’ve cut back on that last one, you gotta admit.”

“Yeah, you have. But even if you hadn't… I’d still know. You make it— _everything_ —so much easier.”

“You too, Eddie. I mean it. Loving you… that's always been easy, it was me and Derry and all that other shit that made things hard.”

“Me too. That's—just… me too." Richie hugs him tighter, still so gobsmacked by it all. "We’re being really gross right now, huh.”

“Yep. Wanna watch _He-Man?_ ”

Eddie snorts but agrees willingly, the corners of his eyes crinkling sweetly when he scoots away, those twin dimples just _asking_ to be pinched. Richie relishes the way his hands get slapped when he tries.

They shamble back into the room, closing the thick curtains in their wake. Eddie clicks a lamp on so he can dig around in one of his bags to pull out his laptop while Richie steps into the bathroom to take a piss and splash some much needed water over his face. Eddie is in the midst of setting up his computer on the dresser at the foot of the bed when Richie jumps onto the mattress with more energy than he realistically has.

There’s a knock on the door. 

Eddie hesitates for a fraction of a second, then squares his shoulders and strides quickly over to the source of the sound, twisting the lock and peering through the crack of the opening. Richie hears Bev’s voice before the door swings open enough for him to see her.

“ _Eddie_ ,” she breathes, relief clear in the exclamation, reaching out to clutch his arm. “I’m so glad, I—I knew you’d be okay. I woke up and saw Ben and I _knew_ , but…”

“Take me down to Nightmare City, huh?” Richie calls from where he’s wiggling on the bed, crossing his legs beneath the sheets and leaning over to get a better view.

“You too?”

Ben, standing nervously at Bev's back, asks: “Is it a Deadlights thing?”

“I get nightmares,” Eddie counters, absently shaking his head. “Not now, but probably, like, three nights out of seven. Or do you mean—” He points between Richie and Bev, glancing back and forth between them curiously. “Wait, what’d you see?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Beverly promises. Richie can guess what that means. “But it seemed so _real_. I had to make sure it wasn’t.”

“Are you two okay?”

“Sure,” Richie replies, offering Ben a half-smile to ease his obvious worry. “Wanna come check for monsters under the bed?”

“We were gonna watch some cartoons,” Eddie adds, like Richie’s quip is permission to welcome the couple inside. Not that he minds. Misery loves company and all that. Or, to be a little less cynical: strength in numbers!

Richie scoots to the edge of the bed to make room for Eddie, Bev, and Ben to climb on. It's a tight squeeze, but not a bad one.

“But you know what we’re doing right _now?_ Assembling a swingers club! That’s the real reason you stopped by, admit it.”

“Starting with the bullshit already,” Beverly sighs. “Why did I expect anything else?”

Eddie slaps Richie hard on the thigh in reproach, his hand remaining discreetly behind in the aftermath, cupping Richie's knee. 

“Seriously though," Eddie yields. "Is this a support group or a double date?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Ben grins slyly, earning a laugh from Bev and a head tit of consideration from Eddie. “Oh—” He pulls a small object from a pocket of his sweats and shakes it noisily. “Anyone want a Tic-Tac?”

“Do you _sleep_ with those? Why? Just in case Beverly wants some late night nookie?”

“No! That’s not— _No!_ ”

“Beep beep.” Bev snatches the mints from Ben and drops a few into her palm, taking it upon herself to distribute some to Richie and Eddie too. “Can someone press play?”

Ben crawls forward to do what she asks, then settles against the headboard, pulling her in close so she can use his chest as a pillow.

“ _He-Man and The Masters of The Universe! I am Adam, Prince of Eternia, defender of the secrets of Castle Grayskull_ —” 

Richie elbows Eddie and holds out the blanket they’d previously shared, making fast work of tucking the both of them snugly in together when Eddie wiggles closer and tangles their ankles and hands. 

Richie crunches on Tic-Tacs and listens to the episode’s opening tune, Eddie’s breath tickling his ear as he breathes slow and steady, helping to lull Richie into a state where everything outside this moment temporarily fades away. He falls back into unconsciousness, eventually, with Eddie muttering ridiculous lines right alongside the characters on screen, making his heart feel like it might be full enough to burst. 

His next dream, whatever the trigger ends up being, gets overshadowed by happy memories and honeyed thoughts. And Richie is reassured by the knowledge that he's earned it.

***** * *** **

It’s chaos, having all seven Losers (plus two honorary members) packed into one house for a Thanksgiving celebration, but had they really expected anything less? No, not if you ask Richie. It was always going to end up like this.

They’re hanging around the combined kitchen and dining area, fitting in beside each other like puzzle pieces that don’t quite match but fit all the same. Some of them duck in and out, sprawling on Mike’s couch in front of various laptops or tablets because he hasn’t gotten a television set up yet or lounging on the lanai, staring out the screened windows while breaking in the set of patio furniture Bill had gotten Mike during their cookware search.

Richie, for his part, has been roaming around the entire house with a mug of Bev’s punch (ie fancy coffee), savoring the taste as he imagines what Mike’s place might look like in a year, when it’s fully furnished and comfortably lived-in. He’ll have books _everywhere_ and selfies they’ll all insist on snapping, and there will probably be a lot of warm colors and crazy patterns gracing every inevitably cluttered room. Those are semi-dangerous thoughts to have, though, because they splinter off into ideas about what _Richie’s_ Chicago bungalow on Nottingham Ave might look like when Eddie eventually moves in.

His house is pretty tasteful, if he does say so himself, and Eddie has seemed to love everything he's been shown thus far, through pictures and videos. He likes the dove gray walls and the pristine white trims, the dark wood floors and overabundance of windows, the classic radiators and farmhouse sinks. He likes the slatted accents and stainless appliances and the use of short, dark carpet upstairs because it looks soft (though perhaps a bit of a pain to clean).

Eddie even likes (most of) Richie’s personal decor; the framed movie posters, the displays of vinyls and cassettes, the tables covered in knickknacks from various cities and states, the shelves that are packed with all sorts of obscure books and magazines (a few of which he’d actually been featured in, if you can believe it). 

The sofas and chairs are cloth, not leather, and are bright enough to contrast with all the neutral tones the house had come with. He’s got fake plants because he’s never home long enough to care for real ones and an actual _office_ he’d been using as extra storage before leaving Derry for the final time, all sexed-up with plans for a future that went beyond tours and specials to include things like love and living. The basement, aka Recreation Room, is where Richie Tozier’s real personality shines through, with vintage arcade games and legitimate film reels (hey, it pays to be _famous_ ) and autographs from celebrities he doesn’t really care that much about but wanted just to be able to say he had them. There’d been a pool table down there at one point, bought mainly so he could feel like a _Cool Adult,_ though he has since replaced it with Ping Pong because Eddie once mentioned he used to play in college and that he'd actually been very, very good. (Richie could drool just _imagining_ Eddie in complete competitive action.)

Richie had done the same thing throughout the whole property, actually; made space for items that weren’t yet there but would assuredly be shipped alongside Eddie when the time came. He already knows, just from closing his eyes and picturing his rather small backyard, where their hammock will take up residence a couple seasons from now. 

_Their hammock._

Richie shakes those thoughts away and downs the rest of his drink, exiting Mike’s currently sparse bedroom in favor of rejoining whoever is in the kitchen. The turkey must be close to done since Eddie has taken over half the stove to studiously watch his potatoes boil. The sleeves of his fancy burgundy button-up are neatly rolled to his elbows, showing off taut, hairy forearms. He’s got an expensive watch on his left wrist, nothing at all that resembles the old digital thing he used to wear as a kid, and there’s still a pale patch of skin on his ring finger that Richie hopelessly thinks he wants to cover up with a band of his own, but then he flushes deeply at that wayward thought and clears his throat, making his presence known.

“Hey, lazybones!” Beverly calls from her spot by the microwave, having taken it upon herself to warm all the goods prepared the day before that Patty can’t tend to on the _other_ half of the stove. She gestures toward Ben and Stan, who are piling large platters across their arms to take into the foyer where a nice round table awaits them, the matching chairs already taken over and sprinkled in with the dining room set. “Help us set up the spread. Sides and condiments on the big table, everything else out front.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Richie says with a salute, setting his empty glass aside to grab the dishes that are left. He finishes the task fairly quickly, dropping the food on any empty surface and leaving Stan to organize as much as his crusty old man heart desires.

When he re-enters the kitchen a few minutes later it's to snack on the crudités that were made without him, those bastards, though he only really likes the celery sticks if they're topped with a heaping portion of Bev’s cheese dip. Richie makes a few random comments as people come and go, laughing with his mouth full even when Stan pops back in and tells him not to. But Eddie doesn’t say a word, which is odd, just continues to stare at the huge pot of potatoes while tapping a manual masher against his bicep in a rhythm only he is privy to. Richie refrains from drooling at the way the purple bruise beneath his throat contrasts so prettily against his silk shirt. He _also_ refrains from staring at how nice Eddie's ass looks in his tight black slacks, failing miserably after a few seconds of trying to find something else to look at. Beverly catches him with a smirk and knocks him on the forehead with a dirty spoon, so Richie tugs on her hair in retaliation.

“ _Earth to Eds,_ ” he whispers into the smaller man’s ear after sneaking closer, laughing breathily at the jumpy reaction he earns. “Water’s not gonna boil any faster just ‘cause you keep glaring at it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie grumbles, elbowing Richie in the side. He allows their arms to link together with a sigh. “Just thinking.”

“Ruh-Roh,” Richie says in his best Scooby impression. Eddie’s lips twitch at the corners. “What’s up, buttercup? Should I get ready for a fight? Go hand-to-hand, defend your honor?” Eddie’s snort is derisive and adorable. “Hey! I killed a man, need I remind you.”

“You _don’t_ need to remind me but you constantly do.”

“It gets you going and you know it.”

“ _Oh my go_ —It doesn’t! Murder does _not_ —” Patty, who had snuck back in to grab a bottle of wine, pauses mid-sip to stare with wide eyes. She shuffles away without saying a word. Eddie sulks. “You’re an asshole.”

“Ayuh.”

“Stop.”

The sad trombone noise he makes into his cupped palms gets Eddie to crack, dimpled cheeks reddening as the creases around his shiny eyes become thick lines. Eddie’s hair is perfectly styled, not a strand falling out of place as he hunches in on himself, but his stubble from the night before has thickened due to being neglected due to sleeping in late. Not even for any sexy reasons, just because they’re _old._ And also tired from their impromptu slumber party with Ben and Bev.

Staring at Eddie’s relaxed profile gives Richie the urge to rub his knuckles against his prickly cheek, so he _does_.

“You don’t look so baby-faced like this,” he notes quietly, not all that eager to let other people in on this part of their conversation. It deserves to stay private.

“Yeah.” Eddie scrunches his face. “That's what facial hair tends to do. Make people look older. But it’s _itchy_. And mine grows all patchy on this side now, ‘cause of the...” He gestures to the scar on his cheek, where there’s a sort-of noticeable bare spot, though just barely. His stubble hasn’t even grown that far.

“I like it,” Richie gruffly admits, resisting the urge to scuff the toe of his taco patterned socks against the floor like a grade schooler. “I mean, you look good. Obviously.”

Eddie side-eyes him, shoulders hunching up to his suspiciously red ears as he turns back to the potatoes. Richie sees the beginnings of a tender smile form. He'd do anything to coax it all the way out. Forever.

“You’re, uh, handsome both ways,” Richie revises. “All the time. Even when I woke up to you drooling on my shirt—”

“I don’t _drool_ —”

“—you were still a dream.”

“Layin’ it on thick, aren’t you?”

“Sorry.” Richie shrugs and leans his lower back against the sink’s rim. He spares a glance at Ben and Bev, the two having moved to sit at the main table, drinking and snacking and waiting for the turkey's timer to go off. He can see Stan and Patricia near the _other_ table, through the archway, and can hear Bill, Mike, and Audra conversing near the couches farther off. “Fuck me for being honest.”

“Maybe later.”

Richie chokes on his tongue, eyes turning into saucers. Eddie bites his lip as he nervously peeks over.

“Jesus. I feel crazy now, thinking you wouldn’t want this. You’re all _over_ me, dude.”

“You like it. No, you _love_ it. I could shove my hand down your pants right now and you'd fucking let me.”

“Don’t get me all excited in front of our friends,” he pretends to grumble, although the way he shifts his hands into the pockets of his pants to pull the tight fabric away from his slowly wakening dick is a little more obvious. “We're heading for the danger zone. Mike’ll know if I go jerk it in his bathroom, _baby_.” He adds the pet-name just to see if Eddie will shiver or blush. It's a yes to both. 

“You’re so gross,” Eddie complains, scrunched nose and all, but his gaze slides down Richie’s body for a moment that has him briefly wondering if he can get away with stealing a cigarette from Beverly’s purse, needing one as an excuse to cool down outside. Alternatively, Richie could attempt to exercise a little bit of self-control, but he's not sure he has any when Eddie looks thissharp— “Hey, if we really _did_ end up getting tattoos, where would yours be?”

“Uh.” Richie falters at the sudden shift in topic. He pushes his glasses farther up his nose, licks some dry coffee off his slightly chapped lips, and shrugs. “Why're you asking me? You hated my other suggestions.”

“Because they weren’t serious.” Eddie levels him with a big, round stare. “Be serious for me, Rich.”

“ _Oh_ -kay…” Looking down at his own body, he scratches at his chest and pauses, fingers curling around the collar of the floral accented navy shirt Beverly had shoved at him in Atlanta. “Like… over my heart, I guess? Or—” He lifts his arm to poke around his ribs. “Maybe here? Depends on what you want.”

“And you’d actually do it? Just because I said so?”

“Well, yeah. Why not? It was my idea in the first place. I thought about getting some before, y'know. When I was in my twenties. But there was always an excuse. I never knew what I wanted. And I kind of looked like a Monchichi, not gonna lie, which was super embarrassing. So far the only good things about being forty are getting to kiss _your_ stupid face and not having to deal with so much body hair, in that order.”

“That means you’ll probably go bald soon,” Eddie says thoughtfully. Richie kicks him in a ridiculously muscled thigh because _rude._ It doesn't faze Eddie, who suddenly grabs his arm to drag him along, leaving his masher on the messy counter as he steps away from the stove to call out: “Hey, Losers!” It takes a moment for Stan, Mike, and Bill to walk in, but when they do they’re alone, hopefully leaving Patty and Audra to bond somewhere while they have this unplanned meeting. “That’s kind of what I want,” Eddie declares when they unwittingly form a circle. “For my tattoo. Losers. The version on my cast that summer, remember? Richie brought it up a while ago and I’ve thought about it a lot, and that’s what I want.”

“Are _we_ supposed to get it with you?” Stan asks. He hadn’t been there during the initial conversations, but they’d brought it up in the chat a few times since and he’s gotten the hint that this might end up being a group activity. Richie kind of wanted it to just be home and Eddie, like he said before, but this is a big deal. Connecting themselves to their friends without the looming threat of a forgotten blood oath seems important.

“If you want. You don’t have to. The only reason I’m telling you right now is…” He makes a frustrated sound at the back of his throat, refolding his sleeves to keep from fidgeting too bad. “Does anyone have a piece of paper? And a pen?”

Ben, the lovable architect, _always_ carries a tiny pad of paper and a fancy pen with his company name on the side, and he hands it over to Eddie in an instant, who passes it right over to Bill with one simple instruction: write the ****L****. Stan gets the ****O**** , Richie the ****S**** , Bev the ****E**** , Ben the ****R**** , and Mike a final ****S**** to make it plural. Eddie asks for a red marker then, but the only thing in the house resembling that request is Beverly’s lipstick, so he takes it and, very carefully overlapping Richie’s grand S, marks a ****V****. The simple gesture gets Richie's heart pumping, seeing that _their_ letters are purposefully intertwined, mirroring something from so long ago. Like their hands, then. Their lives, now. Their hearts, always. 

Eddie offers a bashful smile when Richie blinks at him dumbly. He returns the smile, feeling as if his face might crack.

Eddie holds the paper out, everyone crowding around him to get a good view, and when they do… yeah. Richie wouldn’t mind having that on his body. A reminder of the most important people in his life.

“Sign me up,” Richie is the first to say. Beverly and Bill are next, followed by Mike and Ben at almost the same time. Stan hesitates, but when he meets eyes with each of them individually, then looks back down at the old-new memento from their youth, he smiles and nods, once, decisively. Richie doesn't think this is something Stanley will regret.

“When are we doing it? Not this weekend, I hope. Black Friday deals aren’t worth the increased risk of shoddy work and blood borne infections…”

And just like that, they’ve got a future Tattoo Date to plan.

********* **

Dinner is roughly around 6pm and is filled with equal amounts of eating and laughing while _Planes, Trains, and Automobiles_ plays in the background off somebody’s laptop in the other room. They can barely hear it, with how loud they are, but the added noise makes everything feel that much cozier. It’s so warm in here and everything smells delicious, and Richie can’t stop smiling and laughing and touching anyone that’s nearby (Beverly on his right, Eddie on his left, Stan straight across). It’s a far cry from the Richie Tozier that had driven into Derry with shaky hands and a whirring mind. He supposes it’s apt, then, that he feels so fucking _thankful_.

Mike talks excitedly about the woman at the bookstore he’d recently met and the job she offered him, going on long enough for Richie to make kissy noises while Bev giggles and Bill congratulates him with a nice clap on the back. Mike shoots everyone down by explaining that he’s going to be focusing on himself for a while, that he might not even take the job since he wants to do some traveling, and that he doesn’t foresee any romance in his immediate future.

“Dude,” Eddie scoffs, swirling his wine like he’s not sure if he should partake in any or not, “I’ve lived my entire life trying to _foresee_ shit, alright? Sometimes things just happen. Sometimes… sometimes _people_ just happen, and then you’d do anything not to lose them when you swore you’d do anything not to want them in the first place.”

“Should I be flattered you tried that hard not to want me, or…?” Richie trails jokingly, hiding how grossly ooey-gooey he feels on the inside by chowing down on Patty and Stan’s stuffing. Eddie rolls his eyes, though his hand finds Richie’s beneath the table. Shyly, at first, and then more assured when Richie squeezes his fingers.

Ben, with an encouraging shoulder rub from his favorite girl, reveals that he’s decided his next project will be a community center for youths in none other than Derry, although he has no plans to actually step foot in the state of Maine ever again. He says he wants to give back at least _some_ of what the town lost, and that he believes creating a place where kids like they used to be can come together is part of a solution he feels the best about. If it ends up being anything like the clubhouse, they're sure his project will be a major hit.

Bill’s update is old news, considering they all know he finally wrote a suitable ending for the movie Peter Bagdanovich was now overseeing post-production on. He’d let them all know when he started writing his next novel, too; almost immediately after landing back in L.A, second only to what he’d described as some _heavy conversations_ with Audra, thanks to all he’d put her through. Richie knows Bill had spent several nights in a guest bedroom, after admitting to kissing Beverly, but with the way they’re poking at each other now, all smiley and flirty-eyed, Richie thinks they’re going to be just fine. Bill deserves it. 

Beverly doesn’t have much to report either, as it turns out. She’s still going through a tense divorce, still trying to work out what to do with her share of _Rogan & Marsh,_ still bouncing around ideas for future endeavors. She seems excited, despite all this. Probably because of all the wild sex she must be having with Mr. Handsome on the daily, but probably also because she has a support system nowadays that reminds her how to be as fearless as she once was. Whatever Beverly Marsh had been running to… looks like she’s finally found it.

Eddie’s in limbo, same as Bev, waiting out _his_ divorce while thinking over career decisions he still can’t bring himself to make. Everything about his health, apartment, and assorted mid-life crisis (crises?) is relayed through the group chat on a regular basis, so he settles for telling a round of stories about the cat he always gets stuck babysitting and how the tiny demon had escaped through a window one time, forcing Eddie to go searching for it in the middle of the night. Richie remembers the incessant messages Eddie sent him during those tense hours, including several blurry pictures of his constipated expression as the whole thing went down, followed by a shot of the feline, finally safe and sound, wearing the same pissy expression. 

Richie doesn’t show anyone those pictures, although he _does_ decide, after some aggressive eyeballing from Eddie, to tune his friends into the slew of interviews he’s got coming up. A storm of excitement and worry follows this information, and while he appreciates every comment and hummed sound he also doesn’t want the attention right now, not _that_ kind. He just wants to be Richie, so he deflects soon after by not-so-subtly nosing into Stan and Patty’s business. They’ve scheduled their previously canceled Buenos Aires trip to take place after New Year’s Day, which also happens to be the end of Hanukkah, lucky for them. Stan promises he’ll find time to support Richie’s return to the spotlight by subjecting himself to the insufferable antics of Late Night shows, but he says he and Patty will be going dark otherwise, mostly so Richie doesn’t show up at their hotel to crash their much-needed vacation.

“Why would Richie wanna go on vacation with _you?”_ Eddie asks haughtily, in between greedy gulps of the wine he hadn’t been sure he wanted earlier. “I’ll be in Chicago for Christmas and I probably won’t be leaving until way after you even get back—”

He cuts himself off once he realizes he’d just blabbed about the plans he and Richie have barely made yet, flushing indignantly when Richie stares at the side of his face with an awfully wide grin, somehow managing not to _burst_ from excitement. Eddie will be visiting not just for a week or two, but possibly three or _four_. He feels a little cracked out, to be honest, but in a _good_ way. Who would've thought?

“You’re spending Christmas with Richie?” Beverly giddily parrots, straightening in her seat to lean across the table. “ _Aww_ , that’s so cute! You _have_ to let me make you matching sweaters.”

“No, _no_ fucking way. Absolutely not.”

“But I have an awesome idea!”

“Then use it for literally anyone else. There’s no way I—”

 _“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas!”_ Richie sings obnoxiously, drowning Eddie out. The implication is obvious and a good distraction.

Bill sputters, spraying his drink across the table. Beverly shrieks. Ben and Mike hide their smiles while Stanley turns to his wife to whisper, _“What did I do to deserve this?”_ Funnily enough, Audra is giggling the hardest. Maybe she likes Richie after all.

“Shut up!” Eddie cries, smacking (but thankfully not stabbing) Richie’s thigh with a fork. “ _Shut up, you fucker!_ I’m gonna drown you with bleach!”

“What? Why’re you looking at me like that? It snows in Chicago!”

He gets food thrown at his lame attempt at feigning innocence. Eddie switches from being angry at Richie to being concerned over everyone’s chances of choking.

“Yeah, I’m sure you were talking about _snow_ , Rich,” Ben says through a coyly twisted mouth, his earnest brows lifting smugly. It’s rare to see him like that. So sure of himself. Beverly is positively beaming.

“I was!” Richie exclaims, such an obvious lie that he can’t hold back his own chuckles. “You guys are just a bunch of pervs.”

“We learned it from you,” Bill defends, raising his glass in a mock toast.

“Which one of us was mackin’ on people in the third grade, huh, Billiam?”

“It was a school play!” Bev wheezes, sounding a lot like Eddie on a bad day. “When was your first kiss anyway, Trashmouth? Your mother doesn’t count.”

“What about Eddie’s? ‘Cause, man, she was a real—”

He’s cut off by fingers smearing mashed potatoes over his glasses, the raucous laughter of his friends, his _family_ , making him smile despite knowing how long it’s going to take to wipe all those greasy smudges off his lenses. It’s more than worth it.

“Say another word about my mom. I dare you.”

“Look, I can’t help it! The Kaspbraks are like catnip to me, I swear.”

“Does that make you a giant pussy?” Beverly cackles.

“ _Pffft_. Clearly I’m a giant Dick.”

“You know,” Stan begins in that long-suffering tone, “contrary to what you might think, that joke _does_ get old.”

“And so does the stick up your ass, but we are who we are, Stanley.”

“You’re supposed to say _it is what it is,_ doofus,” Eddie reminds him quietly, leaning in to pull the soiled glasses off his face. Richie blinks rapidly when blurry blobs come into view, biting his lip to stop himself from looking like a lovesick fool when the gentle tilt of Eddie’s mouth becomes sharply focused, this close. Then, a little louder, for everyone to hear, Eddie says: “Anyway, was I the only one who caught the EcoBoost 400? Fuckin’ Jimmie Johnson, man! Seven championships!”

They go on like this for a while, stopping when they’re too full to laugh or move, the movie in the background fading into nothing just like their chatter. Eddie cleans Richie's glasses thoroughly at some point, playing keep away and laughing like a loon when Richie fumbles blindly, cursing up a storm until Eddie takes pity on him and hands them over. 

They sit in their contentment afterward, murmuring back and forth here or there in little side conversations, picking at their dessert and closing their eyes, fighting off the urge to sleep as it threatens to pull them under.

Patty and Mike are having a conversation that is _way_ too boring for Richie to comprehend when tiny snippets of it travel over; Beverly and Audra pass their phones back and forth, discussing whatever adorns the screen while Bill asks Ben questions about boating; Stan is silent, eyes closed, hands laced atop the table, enjoying some peace that Richie and Eddie surprisingly do not disrupt. They’re not doing much of anything, in fact, except stealing sideways glances at each other and playing an aggressive game of footsie under the table, both of them trying to keep a straight face the longer it goes on. Ben shoots him a rather knowing look after a while but says nothing about it, and Richie is swarmed with that rare buzzing relief he sometimes gets now that he can be honest with the Losers as well as himself. The rest of the world will come soon enough and, with it, what he’s sure will be many ups and downs, but here? The fact that it doesn’t matter is, ironically, what matters _most_.

Richie is scraping the last few bits of cake off his plate, chewing and nodding and preening under all the praise—because, hey, he didn’t screw it up after all!—when Stan clears his throat. He pushes up from his seat after receiving everyone’s attention, an envelope he pulls out from beneath his cardigan crinkling slightly in his careful hands.

“I, uh, I mentioned before that I wrote letters for everyone, when everything was… happening. I know it’s sort of macabre, but I’d like to read one, if that’s okay? It’s important to me and I think it’ll be important to you, too.”

“Yeah. Go ahead, Stanley,” Bill encourages, shifting into a more alert position. Richie and the others follow suit.

With a nod and a deep breath, Stan sets the empty envelope onto the table once he retrieves a folded sheet of paper from it, taking the time to smooth away the creases as he spreads it out. The readers that have been hanging around his neck settle low on his nose.

“Dear Losers,” he begins, slow and precise. “I know what this must seem like, but this isn’t a suicide note. You’re probably wondering why I did what I did. It’s because I knew I was too scared to go back. And if we weren’t together—if all of us, alive, weren’t united—I knew we’d all die. So, I made the only logical move. I took myself off the board. Did it work?” He pauses to give them a wry smile. Richie flicks his gaze away to stare down at his empty plate, trying not to keep down the massive amount of food he’d just devoured. “Well, if you’re reading this, you know the answer. I lived my whole life afraid. Afraid of what comes next, afraid of what I might leave behind. Don’t. Be who you want to be. Be proud.”

The strength in his voice gets Richie peeking back over with tears quickly pooling in his eyes. He knows these words aren’t just his, but there’s something in Stan’s stare that speaks to him specifically, calling back to the pep-talk he’d given him and Eddie at the zoo those few months back, a push he’ll always be grateful for.

“And if you find someone worth holding onto…” Stan glances over Richie and Eddie to land on Patty beside him as she rubs his back, then to Beverly and Ben, to Bill and Audra, and finally to Mike, who regards them all with such open devotion it causes Richie’s tears to fall. The others aren’t far behind in that department. “Never, ever let them go. Follow your own path, wherever that takes you. Think of this letter as a promise, a promise I’m asking you to make. To me. To each other. An oath.” Stan laughs, blinks, sniffles. “See, the thing about being a loser is…” Ah, there it is. Eddie’s knee knocks into Richie’s discreetly, the corners of his shiny eyes crinkling as a hand covers his mouth. “You don’t have anything to lose. So be true, be brave, stand, believe, and don’t ever forget: we’re Losers and we always will be.”

Richie pushes his glasses up to wipe at his eyes with the back of his hand as Eddie’s chair scrapes across the floor. He’s up and out of it in an instant, flinging himself at Stan and practically grappling him into a rare non-Richie embrace. They both know intensely crippling fear, have both been at the brink of despair and loss—of their control, their friends, their _lives_. Eddie had come closer than that, in fact, and Richie thanks his lucky stars every day that it hadn’t stuck. But there they are, two of his favorite people in the world, murmuring and nodding, and Richie has no choice but to join them.

He gets to the hug right as Bill does, followed by Bev, Ben, and Mike, the latter pulling Audra and Patty into the fold when he spots them hovering, and soon they become a tangle of bodies, of happiness and grief. There’s relief, too; that they could hear Stan’s wishes straight from his own mouth and not have to keep them tucked away as a reminder of what could have been; that they can touch Eddie and talk to him, and be touched and talked to in turn. 

Ever since Richie started remembering—his past, who he is, who the Losers are and what they mean, the ways they helped shape him—he can’t imagine a world where they don’t end up with each other. And he’ll never have to.

“You’re snotting on me,” Stan says stuffily, most likely getting his own mucus in Bill’s hair. Richie laughs and locks an elbow around his neck to haul him in closer.

“Hey, fuck you and your fucking speeches, man! You’re giving Bill a run for his money.”

“Yeah, maybe _you_ should’ve been a writer, Stan.”

“I think that profession is better suited to those of us with _bad_ ideas.”

“Oh, ouch, Stan. Really uncalled foe.”

“Alright, okay,” Eddie cuts in, trying to shimmy out of the center where he’s trapped. Richie’s surprised he lasted _this_ long with everyone all up in his bubble. He feels unreasonably proud. “Can we stop with the mushy shit now? Do something else?”

“It’s okay to cry, Eddie,” Ben replies, a hint of a taunt hidden well within his usual sincerity.

“Okay, fuck off.”

They laugh wetly at Eddie’s mild heat and break apart a moment later, settling back into their spots while wiping at their noses and eyes.

“I actually do want to say something,” Bill reveals. “Not sure it’ll live up to what we just heard, though.”

“Well, you can still try,” Stan teases, one side of his mouth tilted in a smirk.

“Yeah, come on, Bill,” Beverly encourages. “Let’s hear it.”

“Bill! Bill! Bill! Bill! Bill!” they chant around the table, ending only after Richie crows: " _Bill Nye the Science Guy!"_

 _“Okay_ , okay. I, uh, I really just wanted to talk about how thankful I am to be back to myself. The version of I’m _supposed_ to be. I think we’re all feeling like that right now and have been since Derry. We’re three months out, still just as strong, and I think—I _know_ this is the best I’ve ever felt. Being here, with all of you, having you with me again, and having Audra be part of that… No matter what else happens, no matter how hard life still might get, we’ll always know we got over the worst of it together. And that’s how it’s gonna stay. So, I thought maybe we could go around and shed some light on all the things we’re thankful for, now that we’ve got some real perspective. Since, you know, that’s kind of what today is all about, right? I'll start with my wife, my marriage.” He gives Audra a steady look, stiff posture softening when she returns it. “I learned so much about myself and that’s helped me a lot, as a person, and it’s helped my career. I know how to end things now, guys, you can stop worrying about me ruining Peter’s movie.

“And obviously I’m grateful for all of you, sitting here with me. My friends. My _best_ friends. And… that you’re all happy, too. That you’re all getting what you really deserve, after all this time. I know the things I’ve done haven’t exactly made that easy, but I wake up every day just—just so fucking grateful that this is where it got us. And I’m hoping this is where we’ll stay.” He takes a hefty breath, cheeks puffing on a slow exhale. Mike gives his shoulder a reassuring pat. “I could go on forever, so let’s leave it there. Who’s next?”

Beverly answers the call, unsurprisingly, standing with her head held high, a glass in one hand and Ben’s in the other. And as she lays out the good that has blessedly replaced the bad, all Richie can do is stare at the side of Eddie’s face like how a dog stares at a bone, body going taut and warm and tingly when Eddie’s velvety gaze slides over to meet his.

 _I love you_ , Richie thinks, wild and free despite not saying it out loud. And the funny thing is… when Eddie stares back, wide-eyed and sweet, every crease and wrinkle and scar pulling Richie impossibly deeper, Richie doesn’t just _swear_ that he sees an _I love you_ of equal caliber reflecting back at him, he _knows_.

Richie no longer aches for a childhood he can’t remember, because he finally _does._ Every wonderful, horrible slide is strewn out in the open, warped and faded but still playable on a permanent loop, if he so chooses. And he likes to, sometimes, but not as much as he thought he would. Because he no longer has to yearn for days long gone, for the person he once was, for the friends _they_ once were. He can live in the moment, instead. Create new memories, fully realized and fully grown, bigger and better than ever, same as he is now; with Eddie by his side, together in ways he barely ever dared to hope; with Bill and Beverly and Stan and Mike and Ben, too. And they can continue on this track knowing they aren’t missing any pit-stops along the way. It’s all one path from here.

This really is just the beginning—of a brand new story in a brand new era. A beautiful second start.

Richie has what he loves and he loves what he has, and _that…_ that is more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. It's over. I really can't believe it! I started this fic /months/ ago and while I've been finished writing it for a while, editing still took up a lot of time. I apologize for posting this later than usual. Before I started checking this chapter over I decided to finish + edit a fic I started some weeks back, which is now posted! If you're interested in a fluffy/silly teen!reddie one-shot AU (titled "It's Only Natural"), feel free to check it out and let me know what you think! 
> 
> ANYWAY. After months of work and a result of over 100k, ATVBOUSOUFL (yikes) is finally complete! It was technically finished at chapter 11, but I hope you enjoyed this two-part epilogue as a bonus. (I have loose plans, right now, to hopefully write some one-shots set in this universe still, so maybe those will pop up sometime in the future! If I can stop being lazy...) I've really loved spending time in this fic universe with these characters (I love the Losers so much. I also love anyone who gives Richie/Eddie a happy ending together!) It's meant so, so much to me to know people have been reading my fic, and every kudo and especially every comment has made me so happy. Even the short little remarks you leave give me a boost of motivation to keep going, so thank you! I'm hoping to write more reddie fics and finish the WIPS I have saved on my computer.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! I really hope you'll let me know what you thought of this final chapter. ♥‿♥ It's been a ride lol
> 
> p.s. i'm still looking for a potential nickname/pet name for eddie to call richie in possible future installments, so give me your suggestions if you'd like.
> 
> random notes:  
> [songs mentioned: she bop - cindi lauper; heaven is a place on earth - belinda carlisle; you spin me round (like a record) - dead or alive; rock lobster - b-52s; love song - the cure; she sells sanctuary - the cult; call me - blondie; melt with you - modern english; africa - toto; question authority - circle jerks]  
> \--maybe old cartoons can help their trauma  
> \--richie would beat eddie at street fighter hands down but eddie would totally own richie at ping pong and i wish i could see both things happen  
> \--also yes eddie watches nascar  
> \--ben loves tictacs  
> \--pretty much everyone in florida wants a piece of mike hanlon  
> \--yes i had to include stan's iconic letter except now it's not sad!!  
> \--should bev make them matching christmas sweaters? you decide
> 
> (I'm sorry if there are any lingering mistakes, which there probably are. This took me days to edit and I usually do it at night which is... not good.)
> 
> And for a final time (but not really): THANK YOU ༼ つ ಥ_ಥ ༽つ

**Author's Note:**

>  **Long note incoming!**  
> 
> 
> Hello! It's been quite a while since I've written anything, but I'm back on my fix-it bullshit, this time with It! Ayyyy. 
> 
> First off: I've loved It since I was a kid. I used to watch the mini-series CONSTANTLY (right up there with Scream and The Little Mermaid), so when the 2017 adaptation came out I was really excited. Of course I ended up falling very deep in love with this version of the story and these versions of the characters. I had planned on writing a fic after it first came out, but then I got sucked into TWD and Desus ("long time, no see" to anyone seeing this that read those fics from me! I hope you're all doing well!) and completely abandoned the fic I had barely started for Reddie when I started writing other things. (I was able to incorporate that abandoned WIP from the depths of my computer into this fic, tho! As a flashback in an upcoming chapter!) 
> 
> Now, I'd been so hyped for Chapter Two ever since I knew Chapter One was going to be just about the kids, and that hype only grew once spoilers started coming out about Richie having been in love with Eddie the whole time (we been knew), so when I finally saw the movie... well, I'm still not over it. (Anyone who thinks Eddie wasn't in love with Richie: EXPLAIN THE HAMMOCK SCENE TO ME, SPECIFICALLY. That was basically Eddie's version of Richie's usual pigtail pulling. I wish we'd gotten more on Eddie's side of things, but I think there were at least enough clues to see it was mutual.) Anyways, obviously I knew Eddie wasn't going to survive the story but I was wholly unprepared for how hard it actually hit me. Maybe it's because I got so attached to these characters in this version, far more than the other versions before, but the whole ending—Richie refusing to leave Eddie's body, him screaming at the house, crying in the quarry, that damn window shot of 7 kids but only 5 adults, STAN'S LETTER, THE HAPPY BIKE SCENE (big spoilers for this fic, too)—kills me each and every time I see it. Like, I seriously cry every single time. It's beautiful and super tragic and also bullshit. 
> 
> So I've been drowning myself in amazing fix-it fics ever since while simultaneously spending 4 months trying to write this story, which got way out of hand, as usual. The fic, as I'm writing this note, is nearly complete. I'm still finishing up the last part of the final chapter and I was going to wait until I was entirely done before posting, but I'm impatient and antsy and a little fed-up after working on this for so long (lolol) that I had to go ahead and I get it out there now. I'll be updating once a week, probably on Saturdays since that's what today is (3:17 AM right now, yikes). It hasn't exactly turned out the way I wanted in some respects and I've been constantly wishing my writing didn't suck so bad, but I wouldn't post it if I didn't think there were people out there who might enjoy reading this fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it, so here we are. :)
> 
> (As mentioned above, the first 3 chapters are basically Chapter Two in written form, with added pining and introspection from Richie. That might not be to some people's liking, since there are scenes and dialogue taken straight from the movie, but that's just what my brain wanted to do at the time to set everything else up. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ The rest of the story is purely a fix-it, tho! With lots of fluff because I'm me.)
> 
> I hope you guys will stick with this story as I update (it WILL be completed) and that you have fun reading this slow-burn romance. Richie and Eddie deserve to be together and that's on that! So, if you do enjoy, I hope you'll let me know. It always means a lot to me to see what you guys have to say. :) Thank you to anyone who gives this a chance! <3
> 
> [I try my best to edit everything, but I hate doing it and always end up missing errors. I hope any lingering mistakes aren't too distracting!]


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